


Stuff Tippy Wrote -- Supernatural edition

by tiptoe39



Category: Supernatural, Supernatural RPF
Genre: 8x09, Alternate Universe - Human, Babysitting, Body Worship, Charlie Reads Carver, Coda, Conventions, Episode Related, Episode: s04e01 Lazarus Rising, Episode: s04e02 Are You There God? It's Me Dean Winchester, Episode: s04e03 In the Beginning, Episode: s04e07 It's the Great Pumpkin Sam Winchester, Episode: s04e10 Heaven and Hell, Episode: s04e16 On the Head of a Pin, Episode: s04e18 The Monster at the End of This Book, Episode: s09e06 Heaven Can't Wait, Episode: s10e14 The Executioner's Song, Episode: s10e20 Angel Heart, First Kiss, Fluff, Home Improvement, I Love You, Inspired by Fanart, Marriage Proposal, Men of Letters Bunker, Meta, Mistletoe, Multi, NSFW, POV Second Person, Poetry, Post-Episode: s10e20 Angel Heart, Post-it Notes, Purgatory, Rimming, Sex, Short One Shot, Slam Poetry, Smut, Stargazing, Superpowers, TV Tropes, Tumblr Ask Box Fic, Tumblr Prompt, Wing Kink, Wing Washing, Wingfic, Wings, Wrestling, angel feathers, beekeeper!Cas, blowjob, carver edlund - Freeform, episode coda, frosted flakes, strawberry daiquiri, supernatural books, telepath!Dean, twilight - Freeform, younger!dean
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-23
Updated: 2016-08-02
Packaged: 2018-04-23 01:46:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 62
Words: 62,824
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4858496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiptoe39/pseuds/tiptoe39
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I've been meaning for a while to start archiving all the stuff I write on Tumblr in one place. Everything here is a one-shot unless otherwise mentioned.</p><p>This is under constant construction. My aim is to put up five "chapters" a day.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. This Is How I Fell Asleep Last Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cas helps Dean get to sleep in Purgatory.

 

Benny’s turn at watch and Dean’s supposed to be sleeping, but he can’t sleep. He twitches and shifts, his eyes open and dart and stare up into the treetops, and Cas watches from a few feet away, concerned. Dean’s the only one of them who needs to sleep. Cas likes to, and he hasn’t been able to for a long time, not when he was alone and had to watch out every moment to keep from being impaled on a leviathan’s fangs. Benny doesn’t sleep so much as stares into space and disconnects from everything.

But Dean needs it, and for whatever reason sleep’s not coming to him. A cold, helpless feeling settles into Cas’s heart as he watches. Sleep is a simple, voluntary action for him. For humans, it can be harder, especially when they see the kind of things in their dreams that Cas knows Dean does. He’s peeked before.

He tries to remember what has calmed Dean to sleep before. He starts in Dean’s childhood, hears the strains of “Hey Jude” in a distant melody. It would be too intrusive to sing that, it would remind Dean too much of things lost too long ago. But maybe. Maybe something similar.

 

He starts to hum, a soft, tuneless thing on a low note that barely ever changes, and the strange thing is that the process calms him, too – he finds his muscles relaxing, finds his breaths slowing to the rhythm of the not-quite-a-song, and the dangers and pains of Purgatory fall away into the background. It’s all accompaniment to the soft tones that are carried on each exhalation. His chest rumbles with it, and he feels centered, in tune with his breathing. Alive, but calm. The noise carries through his skull, vibrates in his ears, and he can’t hear the faraway howls and screams the way he used to. He’s the center of his own universe, his breath and his own voice a singular focus. It’s a new experience.

He stops, takes a breath, and notices for the first time that Dean’s pushed himself closer. He’s lying on his side, facing Cas, face turned upward and attentive even though his eyes are closed.

“I’m sorry,” Cas says, “am I bothering you?”

Dean’s eyelashes flutter briefly. He shakes his head. “Go on,” he says. “S'nice.”

Cas turns onto his side, faces Dean, and continues to hum. He doesn’t know what song this is he’s singing, if it’s a song at all, but it’s nice, and it adjusts itself to the hitch and flow of Dean’s breathing, pauses and continues as Dean’s chest halts in its rise and fall. Cas couldn’t verbalize the connection if he tried, but he knows it’s there. He’s humming Dean to sleep. Somehow.

He has an urge to move his hand, to press it to Dean’s forehead, and when his fingers move despite himself he pauses, unsure. The song falters, and Dean’s eyes open. “Cas?”

Cas takes a breath. He’s let Dean down by stopping, by hesitating, and he doesn’t want to do that again. So, deliberately, holding Dean’s gaze, he starts to hum again, and a moment later he takes another leap of faith and lifts his hand to Dean’s hairline, pausing there and then stroking backward to the base of his scalp.

He’s scared Dean will tense up, say “what the hell,” but he doesn’t. He closes his eyes.

Another stroke, another few notes, and Dean’s whole body is calming now, relaxing into the touch and the sound. His face, too… his lips hang slightly open, and Cas stares at them, draws himself closer to Dean so they brush at feet and knees and shoulders. Keeps singing, keeps stroking, his arm bent over Dean’s body – at first suspended, then relaxing so his elbow rests on Dean’s back just beneath his shoulder. A low hum, his hand sliding back against Dean’s sweat-damp hair, Dean’s exhalations buffeting soft air against Cas’s face. All in a rhythm, all together. Every inch just a little closer.

He hums the next note a bare millimeter from Dean’s mouth, and Dean’s lips tilt up to catch it.

Languid, soft, warm – lips on lips, as natural as breathing. Cas has no problem continuing to hum. This is part of the rhythm, this kiss, part of this slow ritual of relaxation they’re sharing. It’s not passionate, it’s not new, though it’s the first one they’ve ever shared. It’s just another way for them to be close. It works.

Cas takes a breath, hums more, and presses his lips to Dean’s a little more firmly. Dean responds, lips closing around Castiel’s lower lip, sliding there. A little more pressure, a little more wetness. But still quiet and relaxed. Now instead of stroke, breathe, hum, the rhythm is stroke, breathe, hum, kiss. If it’s burning up Cas’s heart with the possibilities, that’s just because he isn’t falling asleep. Dean is. And that’s what’s important.

The kisses stop, just as they started – naturally – and Cas’s voice breaks off the humming a moment later. Dean’s on the cusp of sleep now, his breaths even and slow, and when Cas pauses in his stroking of Dean’s hair, Dean doesn’t respond. Cas drops his hand to the ground, closes his own eyes, and lets himself drift off. Wrapped around Dean, with the memory of a melody hanging in the air, he doesn’t even need to worry about what happens when he goes. He’s never felt so safe in his life.

* *

Morning. Dim light rising over purgatory, light that doesn’t come from a sun, and Dean’s awake. Awake and alone, lying in the dirt, and when he opens his eyes he thinks he sees a tattered trenchcoat flapping at the edge of the clearing as Castiel stands watch. He doesn’t remember Cas getting up. He was that asleep. That far gone.

So sometime last night Cas’s arm lifted from his back, his humming subsided, and he let Dean sleep on his own. And Dean kept sleeping. That seems impossible. Even more impossible than the fact that Dean let Cas hold him like that to begin with.

Dean lies there, though he should get up, and remembers. The weight of Cas’s body, like a blanket, keeping out cold winds. His mind calming to the rhythm of slow strokes through his hair. And the sound of that melody-that-wasn’t, only a low note hummed over and over again, vibrating through his skin.

He remembers breathing slower. He remembers craving more, wanting to be closer, to feel Castiel’s breath as it seeped from his nose on the low note. And as he tilts his face up, he remembers the moment of connection, when the song was pressed directly into his lips, infusing him with music, sending him adrift.

Dean’s not sure if it was a kiss. If it counts. If Cas even knows what he did.

He is sure that lying here alone again is suddenly twice as lonely.

He sits up, yawns, rolls his neck forward to crack it. Benny’s sitting against a nearby tree, and at the noise, he tilts his head and says, in his usual lazy drawl, “You slept like the dead, brother.”

“Yeah,” Dean mutters. His eyes are still on Cas. “Funny, that.”

Benny follows his gaze, coughs. “So did he, as a matter of fact,” he says, and goes back to whittling the wooden stake he’s been working on.

“Cas slept?”

“Mm-hm. Like two bugs in a rug, you two.” Benny seems amused, but Dean’s heartbeat has accelerated. Last time Cas slept, he was drained of mojo, nearly human, and hours later Lucifer had exploded him. If Cas is sleeping again, what does that mean for their safety in this awkward trio they’ve formed?

Dean gets up. “I’ll be right back,” he tells Benny, and jogs toward the edge of the clearing where Castiel waits. He needs to find out how strong Cas is now. How far he’s fallen. Pragmatic stuff, practicalities. The things that matter in purgatory.

Every thought drains away as he nears Cas, and when Dean can make out the details of his profile – the bristle of his beard, his pensive eyes – he can hear nothing but the dull thud of his own heart. Cas. Man, he is still a sight for sore eyes.

“Hello, Dean,” Castiel says, without turning.

“Hey.” Dean sidles up next to him. It seems the right place to be. “Heard you got some sleep.”

“I did.” Castiel’s eyes dart to and fro, watching the forest for movement. “As did you.”

“Guess I should thank you for that.” Dean lifts his hand, touches Cas’s arm. Not for any particular reason. He just wants to.

“I was glad to be able to help.” No expression, no smile, just the words.

OK, awkward. “So.” Dean slips his hands into his pockets, wavers from side to side. “What was that song?” He doubts it’s a song at all. It was just one note, over and over.

Castiel tilts his head. “You didn’t recognize it?”

Oh, maybe not. “Um, no.”

“It was supposed to be ‘Stairway to Heaven.’”

Now Cas is looking at him, eyes round, face sullen. Dean’s heart skids to a jolting stop in his chest. “Seriously?”

Cas looks away again, and he might just be pouting.

Dean cracks up, laughing hard enough to double over. Who knew? Turns out Cas is completely tone-deaf. “Oh, God, Cas,” he manages between peals of laughter, “I missed your sorry ass, you know that? Seriously, that was supposed to be Stairway to Heaven?” His stomach hurts, but he can’t stop chuckling. “Do me a favor. Never try and sing again.”

“If you say so,” Castiel says. “I was joking. It wasn’t supposed to be anything.”

It’s hard to tell if he means it, or if he’s covering. But Dean’s chest is suddenly pinching hard with regret. “I didn’t mean that,” he says hastily. “I wouldn’t mind, you know, if I have trouble sleeping again…”

And Castiel’s eyes are on his again. Unmoving, curious. “Are you sure?”

Dean wonders what, exactly, he’s being asked to say yes to. But he nods anyway. “Yeah, of course.”

“I wouldn’t want to overstep,” Castiel says. His eyes dart to Dean’s mouth. And yeah, OK, looks like Cas remembers everything after all.

“Cas,” Dean says, not really sure what might follow. “That was.. well, it was what it was, you know?”

“No, I don’t.” Oh, great. That’s a helpful answer.

Dean shifts from foot to foot. He’s the only nervous one here; Cas is patient, waiting for him to continue. Even the wind has stopped fluttering through the trees. It’s dead silent, like Purgatory is holding its breath waiting for Dean to explain just what the hell he’s talking about. Too bad Dean himself doesn’t have a clue.

“Just saying,” he says lamely, “thanks for helping me get to sleep.” He’s ready to turn, head back to where Benny’s waiting, but he finds himself rooted to the spot. He needs an answer, resolution, something…

(He needs Cas’s body warm against his, Cas’s lips breathing soft song into his own…)

…traitorous thoughts that have got no place in the wilds of Purgatory. They shock him out of his motionlessness, and he turns to go.

“So it would be all right, then,” Castiel says, sudden and loud, “if I did it again?”

Dean doesn’t turn back. “Yeah, didn’t I just say that?” he says, shrugging. Ignoring the footstep he’s just heard behind him, the fact that he can almost feel the air warm just because Cas has moved a step closer. “Sure, dude. Help me get to sleep.”

“To sleep,” Castiel murmurs behind him. Another footstep. “So not now.”

“Now would be… kind of weird,” Dean says. He can’t quite keep his tone even.

Castiel clears his throat. “Of course.”

Silence hangs in the air. Dean tries to figure what just happened, and he can’t. He can’t move any farther away, either.

“I mean, you can hum all you want,” he says. “You don’t need me for that.”

“For that?” What the hell is with the questions in his voice?

“For humming, you know. You can do that by yourself.”

Shit, the air around him is so hot now, because Cas is so close, and he can almost feel the question coming at him like a rush of charged air. “What about the rest?”

Dean’s reflex is to play dumb. “What rest?”

Castiel places a hand on the top of his head.

Dean can’t move or speak. He swallows hard. Cas drags his palm backward, inch by slow inch. It takes forever for him to reach the base of Dean’s hairline.

“I liked doing this, too,” he says. His breath falls right on the nape of Dean’s neck, below the careful curve of his hand.

“That. Um. Right.” Cas exhales again, and a shiver skitters like a frightened animal down the curve of Dean’s spine. He thinks his legs might fall off. “Yeah, that’s maybe not so…” Again. Dean’s not gonna survive another breath on the back of his neck. He’s gotta turn around just to make it stop, and he whirls while Cas is still inhaling. “Cas…”

Holy shit, those lips really were pretty damn close to the back of his neck, because right now his lips are where his neck was and Cas’s mouth is really, really close.

Cas’s hand strokes back upward, against the grain of his hair. The reverse of what he did last night, and it has the opposite effect, too – instead of soothing, it wakes Dean up, makes him hyper-aware of everything. Of the prickles of Cas’s beard just brushing against his own chin. Of the slight pout of Cas’s lower lip. Of their closeness, of the possibilities if Dean were to bend inward. Of half-lidded eyes glimmering with something like hope.

“Uh.” Dean’s mouth opens stupidly. “Cas, this is pretty awkward.”

“It feels good to me,” Castiel says. He moves his hand back again, curling over Dean’s head. It’s almost hypnotic. “I like being able to touch you. For a long time I thought–”

He stops. His hand falls to his side. “Never mind.”

A chill wracks Dean’s body at the loss of contact. “Cas?”

Cas shakes his head and turns away. “You’re right. It’s awkward.”

Dean watches his profile and wonders exactly what Cas thought for a long time. That he’d never be able to touch Dean again? Was it such a big deal, being able to touch him?

But by the river, he didn’t reach out when Dean did, didn’t fight but didn’t lift his hand to hug Dean back. Dean thought it was just Cas’s usual awkwardness, but maybe not. Maybe he was afraid. Maybe he didn’t believe it was Dean. Maybe he’d thought a million times that Dean was right there, had reached out, and closed his hands over air. Maybe Castiel’s still afraid Dean will vanish like a mirage. God knows Dean’s looking at him right now and scared of the same thing.

He reaches out and grabs one of Cas’s hands. Presses his palm against Cas’s palm, curls his fingers around Cas’s fingers. Holds it there.

“Cas,” he says. “I, uh. I do have trouble sleeping. I… I probably could use your help. You know, when I need to rest again.”

He can’t tell, but he thinks probably Cas is smiling when he answers. “You’ll have it. Whenever you need.”

* * *  
It feels like they cover a lot of ground that day. Feels like, because it’s hard to say just how much ground there is to cover with no maps to guide them, but the day drags on in part because the attacks are few and far between. Dean had expected them to get worse, now that Cas is part of their team. But they haven’t. And Dean wonders if Cas maybe hasn’t told him everything, or maybe if they’ve just stepped into a less populous area of Purgatory. Could be either.

He does know that he’s almost grateful when the attacks do come. Because he’s way better at swinging his weapons and diving for cover, leaping from the shadows and slitting throats, than he is at enduring the long silences that occur when they’re just making their way across the endless forest. The sound of their footsteps fades into a slow beat, crunching leaves and snapping twigs, and a song starts to form in Dean’s head to the beat.

A song sung in a low voice, a note or two hummed over and over, and it calms Dean’s breathing as surely as it speeds up his heart.

He craves that calm more than he should. It’s the first he’s had in a long time, and it calls to him like alcohol does after a hunt, like a good stretch does when he’s been behind the wheel for hours. Something his body needs. And the craving comes up every time he looks at Cas, every time he remembers the feel of his hand closed over Cas’s hand, a silent promise made with a not-quite-handshake that yes, when the time comes, he will feel that closeness again.

He can’t afford to want it so badly. Not with monsters everywhere. Not when peace of any kind is a luxury no one in Purgatory can so much as hope for.

The beat in his head keeps him going, long after fatigue is starting to weigh down his limbs. You can’t afford it. It’s wrong. There’s no peace here. No curling up next to angels and letting their lips drift over yours as they hum sleep into your soul…

He shakes his head, drums himself out of it. Wrong. That’s the only word he needs in his head. Wrong. Wrong.

Something trips him, knocks his internal rhythm off, and he staggers forward a dozen paces before he’s caught in strong arms, blinking, letting himself be righted. “Cas?” he says, bleary, confused.

No, it’s Benny, who laughs softly and holds him by the upper arms, making sure he’s steady. “You need a break, brother.”

Dean scowls. “I’m good.”

“It wasn’t a question.” Benny turns his head, whistles to Castiel, who’s several paces ahead and scouting the terrain for any monsters that might lie in wait. “We’re setting up camp,” he says. “Dean needs some sleepytime.”

“I said, I’m good,” Dean says. “Maybe you’re the one getting tired. I’ll take first watch.”

“You’re taking a nap,” Benny says. “I’m not hitching a ride home on a human who can’t hold his head up. Sit.” He bares his fangs briefly, then turns away.

Dean slumps against a tree, disgruntled. He’s weak now, his muscles openly aching now that he’s been given a moment to stop and the adrenaline is starting to drain away. But as he relaxes, lets his head tip back and his eyes closed, his pulse stays quick and he can only think of how far away Cas was when he last looked. Maybe Cas will take first watch, maybe Dean will fall asleep without him this time. Maybe that’d be better.

Because as much as he craved it, right now he’s terrified of feeling the way he did when Cas held him close. It makes him weak. It makes him open and vulnerable, and startlingly human, prey to emotions and desires he thought he’d forgotten how to feel. Even a human can’t afford to be human here.

Dean resolves to fall asleep sitting up. It’s the only way to keep himself safe.

He might doze, a little, but his tailbone keeps complaining and his back is starting to ache. Plus, he can’t get his neck to behave itself. It aches in one direction, so he tilts it the other, and then that side aches. It’s like trying to sleep on an airplane. Right now, an airplane would be a little less terrifying.

“Dean.” Cas’s voice. A hand on his shoulder. The expected panic doesn’t come with the touch; relaxation washes over him instead, and Dean opens bleary eyes as though compelled.

Cas is crouching in front of him. His eyes are bright with concern. As Dean looks into them, Cas’s hand moves up along his shoulder and slides to his neck. Fingertips over skin, then wrist turns and it’s the back of Cas’s hand along the side of Dean’s neck. Smooth on smooth, and Dean hears a long, shuddering exhalation and barely recognizes it as his own.

“You need to sleep,” Cas says.

Dean half-smiles, and he doesn’t even have the strength to make it an overconfident, cocky grin. It’s just a smile, sleepy and pleased to have a familiar face in front of him. “I’m trying.”

“Lie down.” Cas pulls back, and Dean takes in a breath when cool air touches where Cas’s hand was a minute ago. It’s almost like a withdrawal pang, and he moves forward and obeys without thinking, just wanting Cas’s touch back.

Cas spreads out behind him, and Dean tenses – he’s going to get it again, the thing he’s been thinking about through this interminable day, and now the closeness of it is so imminent he finds himself holding his breath. Any minute the low notes, the hand on his hair, the relaxation seeping into him like a slow flood, and he’ll go under, but how can he? The anticipation is speeding up his pulse, and he’s ever more awake.

“You need to relax, Dean,” Cas murmurs behind him. But that’s all that comes. Dean’s waiting is spiraling down into disappointment.

“I… thought you were gonna help me with that,” Dean says, thinking it sounds desperate and like a come-on, hating himself for saying it.

Cas is silent for a second. Dean turns over, faces him, confused.

He’s licking his lips. And damn if that doesn’t make Dean a little more awake already. He knows his eyes are wide open, that he’s defeating the whole purpose, but when he looks at Cas’s lips, sees them wet from the licking, it’s hard to think of anything else, and his heart is hitting butterfly-wing territory.

“I wasn’t sure when would be appropriate,” Cas says. “Last time I waited until I was sure you weren’t going to be able to sleep.”

“I can’t sleep now.” Dean sounds to his own ears half-hypnotized.

“Yes,” Cas says, “I see that.” And he sounds a little hypnotized himself.

“Guess I should start by closing my eyes, huh?” Dean forces out a snicker of laughter. But he doesn’t want to close his eyes. He doesn’t want to lose the realness of Cas in front of him, and without Cas touching him, he can’t be convinced it will remain.

A flicker of movement at the corner of his eye, and then Cas is touching him, hand loosely holding his. It’s not a lot, but it’s enough, and Dean lets his eyelids sink. Thank God Cas figured it out, because he doesn’t think he could have said it.

The contact lingers. Maybe this will be enough. Maybe Dean will be able to sleep, just holding hands. He remembers falling asleep holding hands with Sam a long time ago, when they were kids. They were little, and frightened, but they found solace in the knowledge that even if they woke up and Dad was gone, they would still have each other. He almost wishes they could still do that as adults. They’d done way too much sneaking out on each other in the past years.

The thought of Sam makes his heart twinge, and he takes in a breath. Cas squeezes his hand, an attempt at reassurance. But it’s not enough. Partly because what he wants from Cas is so different from what he ever wanted with Sam.

His eyes flutter open again. “Cas,” he says. “Can you–”

What the hell was he going to ask? He forgets. Cas inches closer. They’re not quite touching, but Cas’s face is right there. “Can I what?”

Dean heaves a breath. “Can you do what you did last night?”

He should have just said “sing.” He could have. But that’s not all he wants.

Castiel lifts his hand from Dean’s, lays it down again on Dean’s shoulder. The side of his hand weighs down into Dean’s neck, index finger and thumb resting there. He slides his hand forward, just shy of the hollow of Dean’s throat, and then strokes back again.

It’s not exactly what he did the last time. But it’s nice nonetheless. And it sends pleasant chills down Dean’s spine in a way the hair stroking didn’t. His nerves are reacting to this. He’s not falling asleep, but right now he doesn’t want to.

Castiel’s thumb slides under his chin, tilts his face slightly. Dean’s heart batters against his ribs.

“I,” Cas begins. “I did this last night, too…”

Dean nods and parts his lips.

“It’s all right?” Cas’s forehead touches his. They’re breathing into each other, a cycle of warm air.

Dean strains into his hand. He has no words to respond.

Their lips brush, and this time bright fire jumps down into Dean’s gut. He tenses, then arches, body lengthening on the ground as he pushes into the soft haven that is Cas’s lips, not demanding but not the half-asleep, quiet languor of last night, either. This is a real kiss. Dean wants it to be. He wants the prickle of Cas’s stubble against his chin, the soft flicker of Cas’s tongue against his lips. And each moment, each barely-there movement against his mouth, he’s filling up with fire, alive and awake.

When Cas’s mouth comes free, he exhales, a loud rasp. “Dean,” he says, “this is not going to help you sleep.”

“Nope,” Dean says, and dares to slide his hand behind Castiel’s neck, curl it, tug him in for more kisses. Cas makes a noise against his lips, not a hum but a moan, quickly cut off but, for the moment it sounds, bright and resonant, vibrating in Dean’s bones. Energy surges in his tired muscles at the feel of it, and he very nearly powers himself over and on top of Cas, holding back only because his back is still complaining at the stiff sitting-sleep he attempted before. But he’s imagining it now, body heating at the idea of pressing Cas into the ground, letting their legs slot together, rolling his hips down against Cas’s and kissing him until Cas’s stubble has rubbed his chin raw and neither of them can breathe.

Would he have thought to do this if they were still among the world of the living? If Dean hadn’t killed his way through Purgatory, prayed every night, realized through aching nights and bloody days how much he missed having Cas by his side? Dean’s no believer in fate, but he’s wondering now if certain things do happen for a reason. And the unfamiliar, giddy emotion daring to rear its head now, after so long, is joy.

He hums into Castiel’s lips. A few bars from “Stairway to Heaven.” Just because.

And it’s the funniest thing – after Cas chuckles into his mouth, he sighs and falls limp, his fingers relaxing on Dean’s neck. Amazed, Dean keeps humming. He gets through a chorus before Cas dares to break him off. “That’s how that feels,” he says, soft. “I see.”

“Yeah.” Dean smiles.

“It’s pleasant,” Cas says, and his eyes slit closed.

A lurch of warmth buoys Dean’s heart, and he lifts his hand from Cas’s neck to place it on the crown of his head. He starts to hum again, and slides his hand back over Cas’s hair, nudging himself closer so he can rest his arm on Cas’s back. The same as last night, in reverse, and now Cas is starting to breathe evenly, tension and fear draining out of his muscles. And watching it, causing it, Dean starts to relax himself.

He’ll be able to fall asleep like this, Cas tucked into his arms, the night cool and silent around them. He closes his eyes, strokes slower, hums softer. It’ll occur to him tomorrow to ask how much Benny saw, to start thinking about implications and labels for the thing that’s making him and Cas find solace in each other’s arms and lips and song. For now, it just means rest, and rest is all Dean needs, if they’re going to get out of here alive.

“And she’s buying a stairway to heaven,” he whispers, when he’s sure Cas is well and truly asleep.

And maybe they are, too.


	2. J2M Wrestling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jared and Misha wrestle. And do more. And Jensen joins.

 

“Fight training, man,” Jared says, whapping Misha on the ass. “You need more of it.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Misha declares. “I’m a badass warrior angel and I don’t need any tips from you.”

Jensen just looks up from his newspaper and watches the two of them stare each other down. And then staring turns into shoving, and shoving turns into grappling, and Jensen sets down the paper with a sigh and stands up. Because when you have two men in your hotel room trying to headlock each other in ridiculous fashion, it’s not the sort of thing you can only pay half your attention to.

Double that because when Jared gets Misha by the shoulders, Misha struggles, thrusting one shoulder forward, then the next, then trying to jab his elbows backward, and the taut line of his neck keeps twisting and stretching, revealing pockets of white skin where Jared tugs his shirt back. It makes Jensen itch, makes his mouth water. And he’s not the only one. A moment later Jared gives a low growl in the back of his throat and leans forward, sucking on the skin of Misha’s neck.

Misha’s moan fills the air; he arches forward, tries to break free of Jared’s grip, then presses back into it with a sudden bracing of his hips against Jared’s. Jared gasps, and in the moment, Misha slips free, whirling. He’s on Jared in another moment, hands fisting in his shirt, kissing him hard – and then yanking, trying to pull Jared over and throw him to the floor.

But Jared’s center of gravity is too low, and he skids across the carpet but stays upright. Misha comes off the balls of his feet and wavers in midair a second, Jared’s arms tight around him, before he’s being thrown upside down and heading face-first for the rug.

Jensen shouts, visions of a concussive Misha spilling the beans about the three of them to a shocked audience because he’s too brain-damaged to do much else. He moves like someone’s strapped a rocket to his ass, launching forward all at once, head bumping Misha’s shoulders and back slamming against his chest. His feet leave the floor. And in a sudden endless slow-motion, he realizes he now has Jared’s and Misha’s weight pushing him down, and the rug is coming up hard and fast beneath him, and holy shit he’s in a lot of trouble–

His teeth rattle in his jaw as his chin scrapes against the carpet. And Misha’s on top of him, flopping, heavy and limp. Jensen groans aloud. “You know what, fuck you guys,” he starts, his jaw aching as his mouth moves around the words.

And then he feels Misha’s hard-on against his thigh and suddenly being face-down on the carpet with Misha on top of him isn’t a bad thing at all. Chin or no chin. He sucks in a breath, keens softly, and rolls his hips upward against the press of it.

At which point Jared lands on top of both of them and Jensen’s knocked forward again. His forehead takes a long, painful scrape across the carpet, and he howls.

“Oh, shit,” Jared says, and rolls off them. “Jensen? You okay, man?”

“No, seriously, fuck you guys,” Jensen murmurs into the carpet. “I didn’t need half my face anyway.”

“Nobody told you to butt in,” Misha chides him gently, rolling him over and checking out the scrapes that have taken skin off his forehead and left a red mark on his chin. “What was that about?”

His fingers are careful as they press, and his brow is furrowed in concern. Jensen watches him, closes his eyes when Misha presses a soft kiss to his injured forehead. “Just didn’t like you guys getting too hot and heavy without me,” he says, chuckling. His fingertips – kind of scraped, too – find Misha’s back and slide under his shirt and up his spine.

“Oh, well,” Jared says, curling a hand around Jensen’s waist, “in that case, feel free to join in.”

He kisses Jensen carefully, wet lips pulling at Jensen’s own, and by the time Jensen’s wrapping his legs around Jared’s waist and pulling Misha’s head down to meet his own, it’s not because they’re wrestling.


	3. A Short Dean/Cas Fic in Which Dean Does Not Appear

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam and Castiel have a conversation after 8x07. Based on some (misheard) spoilers for 8x08.

“Why didn’t you go with them?” Sam says as the car’s tires squeal and Dean and Benny drive away. There’s anger in his voice, and he looks daggers at the passenger side of the car as though he could burn Benny out of the shotgun seat.

Castiel sighs and doesn’t answer. He’s thinking of that moment again, the one where he could have pushed and let his power overwhelm and forced him self up through that portal. The other time he chose not to go with them.

“Cas?” Sam’s voice comes as though from far away.

He forces himself to return to reality. “Sam.” He clears his throat. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Like hell it doesn’t. I could have handled things here alone.”

“As could I. Why didn’t you go with him?”

“Cause I can’t stand that vampire.” Sam’s lip curls. “Besides, your power’s still shaky from the trip. There’s no reason you should have to do this alone.”

“Yes, there is.” The words are out before he can help them.

Sam squints hard at him. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Castiel cringes at the question, and after a minute Sam’s squint fades, and his face softens into a smile. “You sound like me.”

“I don’t understand what that means,” Castiel says, tilting his head.

“After you and Dean disappeared.” Sam swings his arms forward, hands clasped, in an easy loop. “I was alone, and I figured… maybe that’s the way I’m supposed to be.” But the smile on his face, while wistful, isn’t a bitter one, and Castiel doesn’t know how to smile like that. He may sound like Sam, but Sam doesn’t look anything like him.

“What changed?” he says.

“Amelia.” Sam looks straight at him, and the gaze is so direct it makes Castiel’s skin crawl. “You know, it sounds really cheesy, but… she taught me it was all right to need someone. It actually made me a better person, being with her. I stopped blaming myself for everything. Started understanding that life changes. People change.”

“You think I’ve changed?” Because Sam’s gaze is still so direct.

“Well, yeah,” Sam says, “but… I’m thinking about Dean.”

“Oh.” Castiel looks past him at where the Impala was a few minutes ago. “Yes. Yes, he has.”

“I don’t like it,” Sam says. “I don’t like how he’s suddenly bee-eff-effs with this Benny. Vegetarian vampire or no, it’s… it doesn’t seem right. You can’t tell me you trust him.”

“I don’t,” Castiel says. “I don’t think he’d hurt Dean, but… I don’t like him much, either.”

“Which is why I wanted you to go,” Sam says. “You need to be… well… for lack of a better word… you need to be the angel on Dean’s shoulder right now. He needs someone else to trust. Someone to tell him he doesn’t have to be this eternal soldier anymore. Benny’s not going to give him that.”

Castiel frowns at him. “You want me to be Dean’s Amelia.”

“No,” Sam spits out, automatically. But then he looks at Castiel, and frowns and smiles all at once. It’s a confusing expression. “Well. Maybe.”

“I’m not certain exactly what you’re implying.”

Sam laughs. “I don’t mean that… though, you know, if…” His face screws up for a second, and he has to shake himself out of it. “Point is, Cas… he needs you. He always has. You’re the one guy who can get through to him right now. He won’t listen to me, because he doesn’t understand where I’ve been for the past year. But you… did you see his face when you came back? Cas, you’re something to him. I don’t know what, but… I never saw him look like he does whenever you show up.” He sighs. “The point is… You’re good for him.”

“I don’t…” Castiel turns away. “After what I’ve done. To you, to my brothers… how can you of all people think I could possibly be good for anybody?”

Sucking in a breath, Sam steps closer to him, looks at him very carefully. “Maybe I’ve got this all backwards,” he says. “Maybe you’re the one who needs him.”

The words punch Castiel in the heart. He flinches. “Need,” he says. “Perhaps. But I don’t deserve.”

Sam’s jaw drops open. “Are you serious?”

“I put you in a coma,” Castiel snaps. “I destroyed hundreds of angels. I unleashed the Leviathan on this earth.”

“And I set Lucifer free,” Sam retorts immediately. “And Dean broke the first seal. And we both have hurt each other so many times that there’s no way we should even be on speaking terms, Cas, but we are. It’s not about what you deserve. It’s about what you need. And you and Dean… you need each other.” His voice drops to a whisper. “You love each other.”

“I…” Castiel can’t deny it. Or say anything to it. It’s too naked, the truth. Nothing could cover it up or hide it now.

“I’m not saying you have to be or do anything in particular. I mean… I don’t know just what it is between you guys…” Sam shakes his head. “It’s not even worth thinking about, really. But you do need to be with him. Especially now. Especially when that vampire is trying to do God knows what, and Dean’s gonna go along with it, because he thinks that’s all he knows how to do.”

“Sam,” Castiel says. He tries to smile. “I’m not sure about how accurate your analogy is, but I appreciate the sentiment behind it. And I agree. Dean shouldn’t be left as he is.”

“Then go to him, Cas,” Sam says. “Be there for him. I’ve got things wrapped up here.”

Castiel nods. A flicker of light, and he’s gone.

But his presence lingers, invisible, in the spot where he’s been, long enough to see Sam smile.


	4. Assorted short fics: objects

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A few Dean/Cas drabbles from object prompts.

**kitsuneshika asked you: Destiel, strawberry daiquiri**

Dean’s not a fan of fruit when it’s not in pie, and he doesn’t like girly drinks. But icy droplets of strawberry daiquiri look pretty enticing when they hang off Castiel’s lips, shivering in the sunlight as though they’re about to melt and run down across his chin. One starts, and it’s too much of a waste. Dean leans in, presses the flat of his tongue to Castiel’s chin, and licks upward to his lower lip, catching the watery strawberry taste. His lips close over the other errant fragments of ice and sugar, and it doesn’t taste girly at all.

* * *

**sycophantastic asked you: Dean/Castiel, stickynote (not actually one word but i do wut i want yo)**

On the dashboard. _May I try to drive your car?_

On the driver’s seat. _Why the hell do you need to drive a car anyway?_

On the side mirror. _For the experience._

On the steering wheel. _Around the block ONLY._

On the driver’s side lock. _Thank you._

On the roof. _So is this how we’re talking now?_

On the seatbelt. _I don’t want to get in your way._

On the back of Dean’s jacket. _Get in my way._

Pressed into Dean’s hand. _What now?_

Taken off Dean’s hand, scribbled below, pushed onto Castiel’s tie. _We could talk._

Peeled onto Dean’s wrist, with fingers skittering away. _Why talk?_

Held up on Dean’s open palm. _You have a better idea?_

Pressed to Castiel’s smiling lips. _Remove this and I’ll show you._

Spoken aloud. “Now you taste like Post-It notes.”

Left by the pillow. _Getting breakfast. Be back soon._

* * *

**Anonymous asked you: Destiel - Frosted Flakes**

 

It’s all he’ll eat for breakfast. Dean watches him down bowl after bowl, worries he’s going to become chubby as a cherub, but maybe that wouldn’t be such a bad thing. Maybe he could use some flab to fill in those hollow cheeks, to round out the bony arms. Dean’s felt his ribcage more than once when running a hand down his side in bed, not trying to, but the bones came up under his fingers like the keys to a piano. He’s wasting away. Dean worries.

“You should eat more meat,” he says, and Castiel closes his eyes, shakes his head. “I don’t feel comfortable being cruel to animals,” he replies, and it doesn’t matter how much Dean tries to convince him that the meat is already dead when it gets to Castiel’s kitchen, he won’t budge. More of his overwrought penance, maybe. He does that sort of thing a lot these days, and it’s getting tiring, always having to talk him out of it. Dean’s weary. He doesn’t know how much longer he can keep holding Castiel up to keep him from falling apart.

But mornings are good. In the morning, there always seems to be hope for a new day. And Castiel chows down on Frosted Flakes, and smiles as though he’s actually looking forward to what might happen next in their new life. And Dean never loves him so much as he does in those moments, when a sugar-filled angel smiles at him across the breakfast table.


	5. Assorted short fics: words

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Short fics written based on vocabulary prompts. These are all NSFW.
> 
> Pairings: Dean/Cas, Cas/Chuck/Gabriel, Sam/Gabriel.

**Anonymous asked you: Destiel, claustrophilia ? (take two!)**

 

> **Claustrophilia** : I’ll write our characters having sex in a confined/small space

There’s no room for this, there’s no time for this, and getting caught by demons with his pants down isn’t in Dean’s top five list of fantasies. But Castiel’s so close, and they’re having such trouble breathing and avoiding each other’s mouths and groins in the tiny space, bumping and rubbing with each uncomfortable shift and gasp for air. So Dean gives up and just seals his mouth over Castiel’s, and suddenly they’re breathing through and into one another, tongues sliding together in long hot tastes as they breathe in the scent of their own sweat and the foreign odors of strangers’ lives.

Castiel turns, rolls his ass against Dean’s erection, a silent and insistent _please_. Fuck being caught by demons, there’s no way Dean’ pants aren’t going down now.

“Gonna fuck you right here, just like this,” he growls into the back of Castiel’s neck, and Castiel buries his moan in the sleeve of some poor woman’s fur coat. Quick stabs of spit-wet fingers, shoving, Castiel breathing hard with each thrust, and then Dean’s in him, filling him, hands like claws on Castiel’s thighs to pull him into each thrust. And ain’t no demons comin’ round now, because this is hotter than Hell could ever be.

* * *

**Anonymous asked you: Dean/Cas, hematolagnia, PLS.**

 

> **Hematolagnia** : I’ll write our characters having sex with blood play

Without purgatory, they feel strangely muted, the touches too gentle, the thrusts and kisses safe and foreign. So when Castiel pushes in to Dean he draws a finger across Dean’s chest, where one of his scars already lies, and Dean hisses with pain as blood wells up and oozes out. He grabs Cas’s ass, shoves him deeper, and arches; when Castiel lowers his mouth to the opened wound Dean cries out and digs his nails into the flesh of Castiel’s ass. He can’t draw blood with a touch, the way Cas can, so instead he twitches, pressing another scar toward Castiel’s mouth. “Again,” he begs, “c'mon, Cas, fuck, _again_ ,” and when Castiel’s teeth land on the tortured flesh they’re sharp, like fangs. The pain rips through him, and everything is full and bloody and good. Like it was. Like it ought to be.

* * *

 

**askexconchuck asked you: Triolism (Castiel/Chuck/Gabriel)**

 

> **Triolism** : I’ll write our characters in a threesome

Chuck doesn’t have the slightest idea what he’s doing here, but he’s not about to ask, not when two beautiful men are crawling over him and each other with hot dedicated hands and wet mouths going everywhere, doing everything. Castiel’s eyes are heated as they sweep over his body, take note of the stubborn jut of his cock flushed at the crux of his legs. When he reaches out, Chuck gulps and closes his eyes tight, and the curl of Castiel’s hand around it is insanely warm, unbearably so. Then a wash of heat over the head of his cock and Chuck opens his eyes again, looks down to see Gabriel taking darting licks as Castiel eases Chuck’s cock toward him with each pump. Chuck’s cry is embarrassing; his voice quavers like a thirteen-year-old’s and he takes a fistful of Castiel’s shoulder and Gabriel’s hair, holding on tight as warmth washes through him again and again.

* * *

**Anonymous asked you: Destiel, Haptephilia**

 

> **Haptephilia** : I’ll write my/your character becoming aroused by my/your character’s touch.

Castiel’s hand lands on Dean’s shoulder. “Thank you for everything,” Castiel says, but it’s not what Dean hears. He hears the tolling of a faraway bell, hears the sizzle of his skin as an angel laid his hand on it for the first time, dragged him up through the depths and into the world of the living again. He hears the sound of his own undeserved second chance, hears the silence that echoed in his ears through a thousand moments of staring into blue eyes and not knowing why they made him feel the way they do.

All this he hears, and what he feels is a whole-body prickle, as though through that one touch he’s still, forever, being given another gift.

He shakes his head, mutters a deflection, moves on. But the impression of Castiel’s hand on his shoulder remains, and as they move across the tainted land toward the portal a resolve forms in Dean’s mind. They’ll make it through to the other side. They’ll let Benny go. And then Dean will put his hand on Castiel’s shoulder and return the gift. He’ll put his other hand on Castiel’s face – clean-shaven cheek or prickle of beard, doesn’t matter which. And he’ll start touching there, and he won’t stop touching. Not until he’s given Castiel back what Castiel gave him, not until he’s built Castiel back up an inch at a time. Everything. The miracle of his own living body, repaid.

And maybe Castiel will give it back again. And maybe they’ll spend forever reliving that cycle of giving and touching and loving.

Dean reaches the portal. He grabs Castiel’s hand. They’re almost there. It’s almost time to begin.

* * *

**Anonymous asked you: Destiel, Ablutophilia**

 

> **Ablutophilia** : I’ll write our characters making love in a bath or shower

Castiel won’t look at him; Dean doesn’t know why, it’s not like Castiel has any modesty, considering he’s stripped down without a word or a blush. But he won’t, and he presses his forearms against the shower wall, hanging his head, letting the water fall over his back and slide through his hair and drip from his skin to the shower floor. Behind him, Dean just watches, hand paused midway to Castiel’s back. He was going to scrub it, help get the dirt and grime out, but something else is getting washed away here, something Castiel doesn’t want to tell him about. Dean gets that. He’s had those moments too.

When Castiel sighs, a shuddering exhale, it’s time for Dean to distract him. He lowers his soapy hands to Castiel’s back and works it over, massaging tight muscles, nails a light scratch over the expanse of skin. Castiel’s back is oddly smooth – odd though it shouldn’t be, really, angels don’t scar – and Dean finds himself tracing patterns, devil’s traps and ancient symbols and simpler shapes, the kinds of things that end up on a notepad when he’s trying to take notes on a case. Imprints of his idleness, traced in the pad of a finger, drawn onto Castiel’s back. They’ve got time enough for that now, for the first time in ages.

Castiel shifts under his touch, and Dean becomes aware he’s half-hard. He can see the reflection of Castiel’s cock in the chrome of the faucet, and he watches in interest as it fills out. Doesn’t have to be because of Dean. Sometimes you just get hard for no reason. But if it is, Dean has a vague urge to do something about it. Maybe just as a distraction. A cure for all this time.

Not like it’s a big deal. Cas probably doesn’t know what to do with it anyway. Dean could just show him. Just because.

All his thinking is fogged up like the mirrors outside the shower curtain. It’s all clouded, all steamy and languid, like a fever dream. Doesn’t feel like anything’s a big deal. _Just because_ is a fine answer.

He sidles a little closer. And if his own cock is erect now, if it’s brushing up against the back of Castiel’s thigh, that’s no big deal either. His hand lands on Castiel’s hip, slides forward. He’s just gonna show him what to do.

His fingers curl around Castiel’s cock and tug, straightening out the soft curve of it, and Castiel grows in his hand, firming up. A noise, low and guttural, is swallowed up in the rush of the oncoming water. Dean doesn’t know whose it was.

His own hips hitch forward, the head of his cock bumping Castiel’s buttock, and he closes his eyes, tries not to see the pink-on-pink, hard-on-hard contact over and over. Instead, he concentrates on his hand, on the soft jacking of Castiel’s cock, on the soft moans that are rising up audibly now, the hitched breaths and gulping swallows. His other hand finds Castiel’s waist, slides around his stomach, holds him firm.

It isn’t until Castiel’s straightened up, until his back is pressed flat against Dean’s chest and Dean’s riding his thigh in earnest, that Dean dares open his eyes. When he does, it’s all flushed shoulder and craning neck in front of him, clean and glistening, and the fog lifts from his brain in a rush. He’s here, Cas is here, they’re riding each other’s fist and thigh and they’re pressed together and it’s hot and they’re moaning and and _and_

Dean’s mouth finds Castiel’s neck just to make the _and_ s stop.

And then Castiel’s mouth finds his and there’s no more stopping.

* * *

 

**kalmoony asked you: Sabriel & ablutophilia please ? **

> **Ablutophilia** : I’ll write our characters making love in a bath or shower

Gabriel is not that short, even though Sam’s obscenely tall; his head fits right in the gap between Sam’s shoulder blades, and he likes to run his tongue along the vertebrae there, finding the bumpy funniness of it endlessly interesting. Sam arches, and when he runs his fingers through his hair a torrent of loosened droplets fall down on Gabriel’s head. Gabriel chuckles into the wetness and holds Sam tight, arms wrapped around his stomach. “You’re like a big, wet dog,” he says.

The golden smile in his voice makes Sam turn; now Gabriel’s pressed into his chest instead of his back, and the height difference seems a little more pronounced like this, especially when Gabriel rises onto his toes and Sam cranes his neck down as they seek out a kiss. Once their lips catch it’s worth the extra effort, and Sam moans, hands sliding down Gabriel’s sides to hold at his hipbones, his hard-on riding in a steady rut against Gabriel’s stomach.

Gabriel has wicked hips, and he can roll them in fluid, circular motions that Sam with his big hammer hips can’t manage. Each gyration makes Sam groan, deepen the kiss with a push of his tongue or a sudden suck on Gabriel’s lip that ends on a pop. Gabriel’s cock rides against Sam’s thigh, his scrotum, the height mismatch making for a comfortable nook to nestle in and just grind, over and over. Sam’s cock slaps hard against his flat stomach, a harsher motion, but one that’s driving him just as crazy. He grunts, he pushes, he slides his hands down to tease at Gabriel’s hole, and Gabriel does the same until they’re both fingering each other, rutting, kissing hard under the spray of the forgotten shower.

Sam comes with Gabriel’s cock wedged into his thigh and Gabriel’s fingers deep inside him, shouting, pistoning his hips forward and swallowing water with each gasped inhalation. It’s almost painful. He’s seeing stars. Gabriel holds him until he has control of his shaking knees again.

He reaches down for one more kiss and now he feels the strain to his neck. But the hot water helps, and so does Gabriel, licking into his mouth, massaging his neck, soothing. Moments like this, when Sam’s still putting himself back together, it seems like he’s the small one, and Gabriel might as well be a thousand miles tall.

* * *

 

**foreveratashasaphi asked you: It’s probably too late, but if you do it I’ll draw it! Wincestiel, Fetishism :)**

> **Fetishism** : I’ll write your/my character having sex/playing with an intimate object.

_And in case you missed it, foreveratashasaphi DID draw it… and this fic is based on her drawings:[1](http://foreveratashasaphi.tumblr.com/post/36101678219/doodling-for-tiptoe) / [2](http://foreveratashasaphi.tumblr.com/post/36101990738/obligatory-chibi-porn) / [3](http://foreveratashasaphi.tumblr.com/post/36103084446/pffffff-cackling-to-myself-over-this)_

_And here’s the fic, which is only dean/cas, not wincestiel:_

Castiel is mostly just interested in the concept of it. “It’s supposed to be pleasurable?” he says, holding it up, though they’re in the middle of the store (haunted sex toys, long story, don’t ask).  
  
“Yeah, if you like that sort of thing,” Dean says, shrugging.  
  
“And it goes in my an-”  
  
“Yes, geez, shut up!” From across the store, Sam looks over, shooting Dean an are-you-guys-okay? glance. Dean glares death back at him.  
  
“I want to try it,” Castiel says brightly, and oh God, this is gonna be one of those things Dean’s gonna have to show him, isn’t it? Because you don’t want a slightly loopy angel screwing around on his own with a butt plug. And they’ve already plumbed the depths of awkward over and over again, so what’s a few more minutes of wanting to crawl into a hole and die?  
  


  
But there is no way to prepare for Castiel’s face when Dean’s spread him out, slicked him up (pretend it’s an autopsy, just pretend you’re looking at a dead body, c'mon) and finally slides the plug in. “If you don’t like it it’s no big,” he tells Castiel. “Not everybody does–”  
  
“Dean,” Castiel says, weak, and that is not his not-liking-something voice.  
  
Dean curses to himself and switches it on.  
  
Castiel’s body rolls forward, a wave breaking, and his head and shoulders go to the sheets, ass waving in the air. “Dean,” he says again, voice shaking, and Dean’s never seen anything like the way his body moves, the way his ass wiggles with the plug sticking out and vibrating, like he’s trying to get it deeper inside him and push it out all at once. It’s incredible. Dean is getting hard just watching, his cheeks flushing, and he finds himself wondering, is it that good? What’s it feel like? If Cas is loving it this much, if he’s whimpering the way he’s whimpering, then maybe Dean wants to try. But what if he’s in pain and just doesn’t know how to say it? Maybe Dean should reach over, pluck it out, make sure he’s okay.  
  
And then Castiel turns to him. And his face –  
  
there’s just no preparing for that face.  
  
Fluttering eyelashes. Flushed cheeks. Breaths pulled in through flaring nostrils, pushed out through puffed-out lips. Bleary eyes, meeting Dean’s, locking into that gaze and not letting go. And his voice, every other exhalation on a quavering note, and every note shaped around the same syllable.   
  
“Dean.”  
  
Dean crawls up beside him, draws a hand up his spine. Castiel ripples under his touch, cries his name again. Dean can feel the vibrations, rolling up beneath Castiel’s skin. He breathes, shallowly, in time with Castiel’s own inhalations. “Cas,” he murmurs. “God, Cas, I–”  
  
Castiel grabs his hand and clutches it tight. His fingernails bite into Dean’s skin. “Dean, it–” and Dean can see how difficult it is for him to form the words– “it feels so good, so good, I want–”  
  
He collapses again, unable to keep his muscles steady, and he grabs, pulls at Dean’s hand. Dean lets himself be pulled, collapses onto the bed beside Cas and takes him into an embrace. Cuddled into Castiel’s body, he rocks him, holds him steady as the vibrations roll through his body. Castiel wrenches and thrashes in his arms, cries out, grabs his shoulders and holds on for dear life. His cock is hard, and Dean’s rocking against it with his own, unthinking, lost in the sensation of warmth and buzzing intensity so close to him.  
  
It’s only the first leak of pre-come against Dean’s shirt that pulls Dean back to reality. “Shit, Cas, you’re gonna,” he murmurs. Castiel whimpers, and Dean frowns. He’s not gonna get jizz all over his shirt. More importantly, his own dick is complaining now, straining and hard against his fly, and there’s no way Dean’s gonna last more than a few minutes if they keep rutting against each other like this.  
  
Which inexplicably seems like a totally cool thing to do. But he’s always been way more comfortable around Cas than he ought to be.  
  
He pulls the plug from Castiel’s ass, and Castiel groans, flops onto his back and pants hard. “Just a sec, Cas, just a sec,” Dean says, and without thinking about it he leans in and kisses Castiel’s trembling mouth. No reason why. But he does. And Castiel groans into the kiss, and nods, and whispers “Hurry” when their lips part.  
  
Dean’s never gotten naked so fast.   
  
He’s on the bed again in a flash, the springs creaking beneath him as his weight crashes onto it. He finds the plug again – it’s jumping and buzzing crazily on the sheets, and in his hand it feels like a live wire – and nods at Castiel, who burrows in close to his body. Oh, God, Cas’s naked skin is warm against his, and Dean thinks maybe they don’t need the plug, that all they ever really needed was each other’s bodies and the warmth and the closeness that’s here right now. Castiel kisses him, a peck on the corner of Dean’s mouth, and Dean slides his tongue along Castiel’s lips to bring him in deeper.   
  
Oh, yeah, this has been a long time coming. Way too long.   
  
He slides the plug in, and Castiel’s body tenses along his, a cord of hard skin and tense muscles wound up against him. Castiel shouts into his mouth, tongue bold as it licks inside, and Dean barely realizes that Castiel’s thigh is crossing his, that his cock has found a niche to slide in along Dean’s own. It’s just heat, and vibrations, and Castiel’s panting breaths against his own, and the details don’t matter.   
  
He’s shouting back before long, with each incredible hot stroke of Castiel’s cock against his, and Castiel’s mouth on his and hands clutching at his face, and he doesn’t know who comes first but he does know that when Castiel comes, his ass spasms so hard around the toy that Dean can feel it. The tips of his fingers where they’ve slid into the cleft of Castiel’s ass are nearly squeezed into oblivion. The toy hums crazily. Castiel muffles his scream into Dean’s mouth.   
  
They rock together for a minute later. Dean pulls the plug out inch by inch, and with each inch Castiel gasps, then exhales shakily against Dean’s mouth. When it’s gone, and turned off, the sound of their mingled breathing is suddenly and strangely loud in the bedroom.  
  
“I liked that,” Castiel says.   
  
“Yeah.” Dean laughs. “I could kind of tell.”  
  
“Can we go back to that store tomorrow?”  
  
Thank God Castiel’s asleep by the time Dean can find the breath to reply.


	6. I Love you meme

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Samandriel/Castiel, for a meme in which "I love you" was the prompt.

**cashay asked: Samandriel/Castiel**

Castiel walks away without looking back, and Samandriel’s “Wait” bursts from his mouth, rings loud against the dark hallway ceiling and stops him in his track. “That’s it?” he demands. “You were just going to set me free and leave me here?”

“You’re an angel,” Castiel replies. “You don’t need further help from me. Go back to heaven, Samandriel.”

“But I did this for you!” Samandriel’s fist slams against the wall, leaving a bloody print. “I got captured because I was looking for you. Trying to help you.”

“I thank you for your assistance."Castiel continues to walk away. The sound of Samandriel’s shuffling footsteps stops him, and he turns, sees the angel clutching the wall, stumbling forward. His body is limp, but his eyes blaze.

"I remember you in heaven,” Samandriel says. “How moved you were, how convinced you were that free will and emotion were the keys to our new existence. Don’t you remember, Castiel? You were going to lead us into a new era.”

Castiel’s eyes darken. He heaves a sign. “I was mistaken.,” he says. “I caused more pain… I should never have mistaken myself for a leader.”

“But you were.” Samandriel moves closer. “You were an amazing leader. I was inspired by you. I believed in you, I opened my heart for you. To you, Castiel–”

He stumbles forward. Castiel moves without thinking. It’s a rush of empathy and worry that he didn’t know he could still feel, a desire to at least ease Samandriel’s fall, keep his head from cracking open on the ground. Though it would not kill him. Though he would still be able to vacate his vessel and fly back home. He doesn’t need Castiel, and Castiel doesn’t have time for him. Not with the weight of his own tasks.

But still he kneels, cradling Samandriel’s head, as the injured angel looks up at him with a weak smile. “I loved you, Castiel,” he murmurs.

“I love you too, my brother,” Castiel replies, reflexively, but Samandriel shakes his head.

“Not like that, not– Castiel– I loved you the way you can truly love someone if you open your heart. Don’t… don’t close yours off again. Don’t become like every other angel, not when you were something–” His eyelids droop. “Something else, something better–”

He’s unconscious. Locked within his vessel, his muscles limp. Castiel lifts him onto his shoulder and carries him out of the building where he’s been held captive. Maybe his own freedom is waning, but he can at least give Samandriel a taste of it.

But he can’t afford to stay, and he can’t afford to return the love that’s been professed to him. Not when forces unseen are trying to pull him away from humanity again. He just doesn’t have the time or the heart for it. So he leaves, and he tries to banish Samandriel’s words from his ears. But they linger, ringing there like a warning.


	7. Mistletoe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean and Cas under the mistletoe.

Sam sniggers, and that’s the first hint Dean has that he’s in trouble. A glance upward, then back at Castiel’s face, and maybe he can just ignore this, go on through the door, and nobody will be the wiser. He sure as hell doesn’t give a damn about disappointing Sam.

Disappointing Cas, though, that’s another matter, and when he starts to move Cas shifts his shoulders and his lip trembles on the very, very edge of a pout.

Dean sighs. “Are you for real?”

Castiel’s eyes dart up at the mistletoe, then hit Dean’s pleading.

“I thought we were keeping things quiet for a while.”

“Oh.” Castiel lowers his eyes, and Dean can practically hear his heart shatter. “Of course. You’re right. When we haven’t officially mentioned…”

Damn it. Just… _damn it._ “He knows, though, I guess.”

“Most likely.”

“And he’s staring.” Sam’s stare is like a red-hot poker. If he were right behind Dean, breathing on his neck, things couldn’t be any tenser.

“Yes.” Castiel is looking past Dean to Sam now. “Yes, he is.”

“But really? Mistletoe?”

“It’s part of the human experience of the season. That was the point of hanging the decorations to begin with, right? To help me learn ‘what it’s all about’?”

Castiel always sounds utterly awkward when he quotes Dean, and this is no different. Dean wants to plant his face in his hands, shake his head and sigh.

Instead, he grabs Castiel’s shoulders and mutters, “Guess I’d better bite the bullet.”

“Biting is not required,” Castiel says, and Dean doesn’t bother to try and figure out whether he’s being clueless or teasing. Wouldn’t change the outcome.

If he lives to be a thousand years old Dean’s never gonna get over how damn natural Castiel’s lips feel on his, how they don’t press together so much as meld, like they’re one animal, moving in an easy slide that brings the two of them cresting together – wet tongue, soft licks, grazing teeth – then tapering off back to soft lips, separating as easy as a receding wave from the shore.

He’s never gonna get used to how good Castiel feels in his arms, that strong slender back under his hands like it was built specifically to fit right there. And even if all that becomes old hat, the light in Castiel’s eyes when their gazes lock, right afterward, is still going to blow him away.

He sighs, gathers himself, and turns to the applauding, wolf-whistling little brother in the background. Someone’s getting a knuckle sandwich for Christmas.

Castiel lingers under the mistletoe and watches, and Dean finds himself hoping Cas is still there when he’s done. One mistletoe kiss never seems to be enough.


	8. Fanart inspires

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Based on fanart from lettiebobettie.

_Based on[this fanart](http://lettiebobettie.tumblr.com/post/37815999611/december-13-i-will-go-ahead-and-upload-these) by lettiebobettie._

Cas becomes human in November, and it’s an unseasonably warm November, so when December comes whipping around the bend with its chilly winds, Cas promptly comes down with his first-ever flu. He’s in bed for a good week, and Rufus’ cabin isn’t the best-insulated place in the world, so he doesn’t do a lot of wandering around, even when he’s feeling well enough to stand up. Dean brings him chicken soup and tells him about the Christmas tree he and Sam bought the other day – “It’s huge, like, the mother of all Christmas trees” – and Cas tells him the tree is hardly meant to be the central focal point of the celebration of Jesus’ birth, and they shouldn’t go to all the trouble just to give Cas a nice first holiday.

Because that’s why they’re doing it, of course. It’s not like Dean and Sam even bothered with the cheap plastic thing. But it’s Cas, and he’s human, and there are certain things humans, especially ones that probably have had personal contact with the Big J, ought to at least experience.

Cas is getting a little better, and Dean and Sam hustle to finish the decorating so when he finally comes downstairs tomorrow morning for his first full breakfast in a week, he’ll be pleasantly surprised. After Sam’s gone to bed, Dean’s still finishing laying the string of lights across the mantel, into the wee hours of the night.

The creak on the staircase startles him, and he looks up to see Castiel standing unsteadily at the bottom, peering through the darkness.

“Cas,” Dean says, rushing to him, “go back to bed, you’re gonna make yourself sick again.”

Castiel shakes his head. His eyes are sweeping across the room. None of the lights are on, but the tree is still magnificent in the darkness, the tinsel glittering in the firelight and the stockings low dark shapes lurking over the flame. “It’s nice,” he says, and stumbles forward a few paces toward the draped chair near the fireplace.

Dean can’t stop him, so he follows, one hand curled around Cas’s wrist, and watches carefully. “We were gonna show you tomorrow,” he said. “You ruined the surprise.”

Castiel tries to sit in the chair and misses, plunking down heavily onto the floor. “I’m sorry.”

The genuine regret in his face makes Dean’s heart twinge. “Naw, man, it’s OK. It was for you to begin with, so…” He crouches by Cas. “You want me to turn the lights on?”

“Don’t go to any trouble,” Castiel says, but his eyes widen slightly just before he speaks, and Dean can see him imagining it – the tree full of color, the lights shining, the whole room illuminated. His excitement overflows, and he hurries to the breaker and flips the switch.

The room becomes a carousel, all dancing lights and baubles of color, and Castiel’s jaw drops. Lips parted, cheeks still flushed with the just-broken fever, he looks up and around, eyes bright like a child’s. He doesn’t say a word, doesn’t thank Dean or compliment his work. He just stares, mute, and satisfaction rolls through Dean. Yeah. That’s the look he was waiting for, the whole time he was setting everything up. That’s what he wanted to give Castiel. That wonder.

He eases onto the floor beside Cas, wraps his arms around him, and hikes up the blanket Castiel had huddled around himself to keep warm. For a long time they just stare up at the moving lights together, and then Castiel’s breathing evens and his head dips heavily onto Dean’s shoulder. Dean tightens his arms around Cas and watches the reflection of the lights move across his skin for a long moment. Then sleep claims him, too.


	9. Scene from an 8x09 coda

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Posted because otherwise it would sit in my drafts folder forever.

Dean’s alone in the car and he feels like he’s always gonna be alone.  _Dean, all your friends are dead_ , Sammy said that one time, and now it seems like the ones that aren’t dead are still lost.

He can’t win for losing, really. He tries to protect Benny and loses Sam. Tries to get Sam back and loses Benny. So now Sam’s in a bar somewhere in Texas, and he ain’t coming back. Benny’s on the lam, and maybe back on the sauce, too.

And Cas… Cas isn’t even in the friggin’ picture. He’s off hanging with old people, or doing whatever.

Dean said he needs him, he said it, hell, he even offered Cas shotgun. and still Cas is off on his own somewhere for no good reason.

It all sucks. He’s in the car alone, and it sucks.

A long time ago maybe Cas would have zapped in. Imparted a few words of wisdom, flown off again. But Cas doesn’t care. If he cared, he would have come along.

And maybe everything would have been different. Maybe Cas would have been able to see who killed those poor vics, would have told Sam that Benny was innocent.

(Was. Fuck knows if Benny’s innocent anymore, and Dean figures that’s his damn fault, too. If he’d only been able to keep Martin away from him. If only he’d… done something.)

“Why’d you frickin’ leave, Cas?” he says aloud to the pouring rain on the windshield, the frenetically dancing wipers. “Why’d you stay behind, when you could have stopped this whole thing from going down the way it did?”

“What you mean,” Castiel says, “is that _you_ could have stopped it from happening.”

Dean starts. The pedal hits the floor, and he’s going 100 for a few seconds before he gets the throttle back down to a reasonable 80.

Castiel regards him with sad eyes. “Isn’t that true?“ he goes on. “You’re trying to figure out how you could have it from happening. If only you’d convinced me to come along, but that’s only part of it. If only you’d been able to predict how people would react. If only you’d had control of the situation. All these things are going through your mind.”

“Great.” Dean slams his hands against the steering wheel. “Don’t just pop into my car, pop into my head, too.”

“Dean, I haven’t touched your mind,” Castiel says with a half-smile. “Honestly, I have no idea what happened. But you’re here and alone and upset, so I’m making an educated guess. Am I wrong?”

Dean just grumbles and hunches over the steering wheel.

Castiel nods. “I’m not wrong.”

“So what? You gonna give me an I-told-you-so? Why _are_ you here, Cas?”

“You called for me.”

Dean rolls his eyes. "I didn’t call for you, I was complaining about you. There’s a difference.”

“You were complaining about my absence. Wouldn’t my presence be the answer?”

Dean is so pissed off at this point he’s past scowling into almost laughing. The whole thing seems absurd. “So now you’re the one trying to solve everyone’s problems.”

“I’m trying to be there for a friend.” Castiel’s voice is even. “Do you want me to go?”

“No. No.” Dean shakes his head. “Stay.”


	10. Tools of the Trade

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How Dean ended up with angel feathers in his trunk.

Castiel appears by Dean’s side in the late evening, in the lot by the Impala.   
  
Dean starts. “You’re supposed to be resting. Recharging your angel battery.”  
  
“It’s not going to be recharged, Dean,” Castiel says. He slides his hands over the hood of the car, leans forward and tips his head up, gazing at the stars. “It’s draining away from me with every action.”  
  
“That’s not the best news I’ve heard all day,” Dean says with a scowl.   
  
“I know. But you should be prepared for it.” Castiel turns his head, and the light of Bobby’s porch catches his face kind of funny, illuminating all the wrong angles so he looks like a stained-glass version of himself. Dean catches his breath. “I may not be able to provide all that much assistance to you in the final battle. I may be… all but human.”

Dean grimaces. “Look,” he says, and draws a breath. “I get it. But it didn’t take an angel to take a bus cross-country and save our asses by chopping off Pestilence’s finger last night. Don’t tell me that was some kind of mojo, because I know you, and that was all willpower.”  
  
“I won’t disagree.” Castiel straightens up, starts circling the Impala, his hand trailing over the chrome. “And even as a human, I won’t be powerless. There will still be magic to tap into. I’m not completely familiar with it, but…”  
  
“Bobby will fill you in on the details,” Dean says.   
  
Castiel gives him an odd look. Dean starts.   
  
“What?” he says.  
  
“Not just that kind of magic,” Castiel says. “There are other kinds, magic that has been lost to mankind. Lost to most all creatures.” He shakes his head. “I should have made more of an effort to uncover it before it was exterminated. If I’d known then that I’d be in this position…”  
  
“OK, now you’ve lost me.” Dean laughs a little. He can’t really afford much humor these days, but Cas wandering around his car talking in gobbledygook seems to draw it out of him. “Am I supposed to know what the hell you’re talking about?”  
  
And, wonder of wonders, Castiel smiles a little, too. “Probably not,” he says. “But it wouldn’t hurt you to have some of the tools of the trade available, should the need arise.”  
  
Dean’s so stuck on Cas’s smile that he almost misses the wings.  
  
This isn’t like the time in the barn. This is real, a tangible span opening behind Castiel’s back. They’re solid, and dark, and shivering in the night, and weirdly enough, they still seem to shine with their own light. Dean’s left open-mouthed, trying to scrape together more than a syllable from his suddenly dry throat. He can’t even quite decide what emotion he’s going for. Wonder and fear and something else, something unfamiliar and overwhelming, are all whirling within his ribs at the sight.  
  
He goes for anger. It’s easy. “What the hell are you doing?” When Castiel doesn’t answer, he fumbles for words for another moment, “I said, what are you doing? Didn’t I just tell you? Don’t use up your mojo if you can’t recharge, dude. Cut it out.”  
  
“Come here,” Castiel says. God, even his voice sounds kind of like it’s glowing. Dean’s afraid to move.  
  
“Cas,” he says, but his jaw has gone numb, and it doesn’t move readily.  
  
“Come,” Castiel commands again, and now Dean can’t help but obey.  
  
He stumbles forward one unsteady footfall at a time, keeps moving until he’s well within the personal-space bounds he set a long time ago. Still he keeps moving. So close. Castiel exhales, and the flow of air strikes Dean’s chin. He shivers hard.  
  
Another moment and Castiel’s hand is on his wrist, guiding his hand upward, across, toward – Dean’s shaking now – and his palm skates across Castiel’s shoulder before falling onto the spread of shining gray wings.   
  
“Oh, God,” Dean mumbles, and he doesn’t even know where his breath goes because there’s no room for it between him and Castiel right now.  
  
Castiel closes his eyes briefly. “I’ve often wondered how that would feel,” he says.  
  
“You mean, a hand?” Dean swallows. “ _My_ hand? On…”   
  
But Castiel’s left the thought behind already and is clear-eyed, smiling at him. He looks serene, almost. Angelic, for real. Not in that crappy-ass warrior-of-God way, but like someone who knows and sees so much more than Dean could ever imagine. “Take a few,” he says.  
  
“What?” Dean’s fingers falter on Castiel’s wing.  
  
“Feathers,” he says. “Take a few. They are powerful tools for ancient magic, and there are precious few left on this earth.”  
  
“Wait. You want me to pull out your feathers?” Dean’s lip curls. “Cas, I can’t do that. Won’t it hurt?”  
  
“Probably.” Castiel looks down briefly, enough that the fear in his face shows through for a moment. “I’ve never had anyone do it to me.”  
  
“That means you’ve done it to yourself?” Castiel shrugs. “Then can’t you just hand me some? Save us both the trauma.”  
  
“A human has to harvest them,” Castiel says. “That’s how the human plane can control their magic. An angel bestowing a feather essentially bleeds the grace from it in the act of giving. The magic stays on the celestial plane unless a human takes it.”  
  
Dean’s face has probably warped into something ridiculous, he knows. But it’s beyond unthinkable. He can’t look at that face, Cas’s face that’s offering him a piece of his own body, after Cas has already given him so much, and just pluck out a feather or five. He can’t cause Cas that pain.  
  
“Dean, hurry,” Castiel says. “Every moment I remain like this… it depletes my ‘battery.’”  
  
“Oh. Oh, crap.” Dean’s hand closes around a bunch of feathers. “Cas, are you sure?”  
  
“The devil, Dean,” Castiel says. “The apocalypse.”   
  
And damn if that angel doesn’t always know the right thing to say to get Dean to focus.  
  
He bites his lip, squeezes his eyes shut, and pulls as hard as he can.  
  
Castiel’s cry echoes through the yard. Dean feels it to his core. he hasn’t heard an angel yell like that since the last time he saw one die. He thinks, maybe, he heard the echo of Gabriel’s scream a long way from the Elysian Fields motel. He knows he saw a goddess shiver in the back seat. The feathers break, come loose in his hand, and he fights the violent wrench of his stomach as it tries to come up through his throat.  
  
And then it’s over, and there’s energy and light pulsing in his hand. Dean opens his eyes. His fist is crammed with a cluster of feathers, and Castiel is arched, chin tipped upward to the stars like it was earlier when he was just gazing at space. But his cheeks are flushed, and his lips parted, and he’s breathing heavily. Without meaning to think it, Dean wonders if there wasn’t a little pleasure mixed in with that scream of pain.  
  
Behind him, the feathers of his wings fill in the gap seamlessly, and in another moment the whole span of them fades into empty night air.  
  
“Keep them safe, Dean,” Castiel says. He wipes a hand over his own forehead, brushes away sweat. It’s such a human gesture. Dean wants to pat him on the shoulder, tell him he did great. Comfort him, thank him for his sacrifice.   
  
Instead, he says, “How do I use them? _When_ do I use them?”  
  
The serenity slowly returns to Castiel’s face. “Hopefully, never,” he says. “They contain very powerful magic, and if it’s used wrong…” He sighs. “Just keep them safe, Dean. Keep them where demons can’t find them.”  
  
Dean nods, and he casts a glance at the back of the Impala. “We carved devil’s traps on her once, a long time ago,” he says. “Figure that’s as safe a place as any.”  
  
Castiel follows his gaze and nods. “Thank you,” he says.  
  
“What are you thanking me for?” The feathers pulse hot in his hand.  
  
Castiel just looks at him, smiles one more time, and disappears again.  
  
Dean sighs heavily. “You better damn well have gone back upstairs to rest,” he shouts at the sky, and walks around the car, taking out the keys.   
  
It occurs to him briefly as he’s finding a pouch for the feathers among the countless boxes and bags they keep in the trunk: _This means a bit of Cas will be riding around with us for a long time now_.  
  
It doesn’t occur to him until much later that maybe, that’s what Castiel was thanking him for.


	11. TV Tropes meme

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fics based on TV Tropes prompts. Pairings: Dean/Cas, Derek/Stiles [Teen Wolf]

**Anonymous asked you: Derek/Stiles or Dean/Castiel - Converse with the Unconscious (in this case, the second of the pairing would be unconscious)**

[(Converse with the Unconscious)](http://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Main/ConverseWithTheUnconscious)

You’re an idiot, ya know that, right, Cas? This is your own damn fault. I told you not to try and take him on. I freakin’ told you….

Child.

Ya know, it’s funny, I don’t even know why I call you that. A child. You’re not. You’re older than I am, way the hell older. So you’re socially awkward, lots of humans are too. It’s not like you’re that bad, either,not when it really matters.

Guess it’s easier for me to think of you that way. Cause… when I don’t….

Anyway. Doesn’t change the fact that you knew you were gonna get your grace sapped out of you through a friggin’ straw. Crowley had the tablet, dude, he had it, you _knew_ he had it…

And then you had to turn to me and ask me if I’d do it any different, and I shouldn’t have waited, I shoulda told you yes, maybe it would have stopped you.

Woulda been a lie but maybe it woulda stopped you.

Fuck. And now you leave me here not sure if you’re gonna make it. You think these doctors know how to fix a broken grace? They can’t even figure out what’s wrong with you, they think you’re in one of those mysterious comas that could wake up in a few minutes or a few years or never…

Don’t make me wait a few years, dude. Come on. I don’t even know if I have a few years left in me. You know the job.

You gotta wake up and you gotta do it now because I can’t wait around. And I can’t…

I can’t leave here while you’re still like this… I just… I can’t.

I keep lookin’ at your face and thinking what happens when he wakes up and I’m not here… Who’s gonna tell him where he is, what’s going on, what lies to tell… what if the doctor comes in and you start doing your Angel of the Lord babble and there’s no one here to stop you…

That’s my job. I’m s'posed to be here to help you, to explain you away and lead you around by the nose and yell at you and talk to you when there’s no one else I can talk to.

And sometimes just… just look at you and have you look back at me and feel like maybe things are gonna be OK after all…

So wake up. Wake up and look at me so I know things are gonna be OK.

You hear me? Wake _up_.

* * *

* * *

 

**Anonymous asked you: Trope: grow old with me pairing: dean/cas**

[Grow Old With Me](http://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Main/GrowOldWithMe)

Dean complains a lot about his back, because yes, the damn sciatica showed up at age 65 as promised by his poker-induced preview. And Castiel never lets him forget that of the two of them, it’s Castiel who’s fallen further, had the most to lose,and so can’t Dean be quiet about his back for a while when Castiel is still adjusting to the idea of chronic pain.

And mortality, too. There are times Castiel gets quiet, misty, and stares off into space for a long time. Dean finds him, usually sitting on the porch rocking back and forth on the swinging bench they’ve installed (the grandkids love it), looking out into eternity… or as far as his poor human eyes can still see.

“Again?” Dean says, and Castiel nods.

One wrinkled hand covers another.

“It’s a miracle we made it this far,” Dean reminds him.

“Dying doesn’t bother me, not so much,” Castiel says, though it’s not all true. Yes, he knows death isn’t the end of existence, like it would be for an angel. He just doesn’t like the idea of being a shadow of himself, reliving his greatest moments or no, not after his free will’s been so hard-won. But that’s not his biggest fear. “It’s dying before you. Or after you. We fought so hard to be together, and now… God knows how much time I’ll have to spend alone. Waiting to see you again.”

“We’ve done it before, Cas,” Dean says. “We’ll manage it one more time. And the good news is, this’ll be the last time.”

Castiel nods. “Will I be in your heaven?” he asks. “What if it’s you and Sam, like it was before? What if I’m shut out?”

“Won’t happen,” Dean says. “And if it does, I know a guy in a Roadhouse upstairs who can help us break through to other heavens. He’s a genius, ya know.”

Castiel smiles. “I look forward to meeting him.”

“Anyway,” Dean says, leaning over to kiss the corner of Castiel’s mouth. “I’d say we’re a few years out from that.”

“The best is yet to come?” Castiel rises from the porch swing.

Dean follows, muttering a string of curses about his back. “Dunno about that,” he grumbles.

But maybe it’s true.

* * *

**kalmoony asked you: I sure feel great love for you right now. Destiel + “clueless chick magnet” ? :3**

[Clueless Chick Magnet](http://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Main/CluelessChickMagnet)

“She’s into you,” Dean says, raising his eyebrows.

Castiel looks at him with a mixture of surprise and dread. “She’s still several feet away from me.”

“No, I mean she likes you.”

“Oh?” Castiel’s expression darkens into a scowl. “How do you know that?”

“It’s in the body language, dude,” Dean says. He sets his beer bottle on the bar and straightens up, preparing to give a lecture. “It’s the way she was leaning in while you were talking to her. She couldn’t take her eyes off you. And in case you missed it, when she suggested you take her somewhere quieter so you could talk, that wasn’t because she couldn’t hear you.”

“It wasn’t?”

“No, she wanted you to go back to her place. Why do you think she was so pissed when you said here was just fine? She wanted you, and you shot her down.”

“I thought it was an odd request,” Castiel muses. “We could hear each other perfectly well here.”

Dean laughs. “Well, next time someone stares at you and offers to buy you a drink and keeps asking you questions and asking you to come over, keep in mind what that really means.”

Castiel looks at the unopened beer bottle in his hand.  The one Dean put on his tab.

He turns to Dean with wide eyes. “Dean,” he says, his voice breathy with wonder. “I had _no idea_.”

* * *

**Anonymous asked you: Destiel Ferris Wheel Date Moment (though idk how Cas would get him to do it, with his fear of heights and all)**

[Ferris Wheel Date Moment](http://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Main/FerrisWheelDateMoment)

“I don’t like this, have I mentioned I don’t like this, Cas? Because I don’t like this.”  
  
Dean’s a mess of cold sweats and white knuckles. The phenomenon puzzles Castiel to no end. He looks down, takes a brief X-ray of the cranks and pulleys that power the machine, and attempts to be comforting. “The structural integrity of the Ferris wheel is sound,” he says. “You would literally have to throw yourself off this cart in order to fall. You’re perfectly safe.”  
  
“It’s not about how safe I am,” Dean says. It’s about how safe I _feel_.“  
  
"And the two are not related?” Castiel tilts his head.  
  
Dean groans. “Can’t you just tell me when it’s over? Better, can’t you just zap us away from here?   
  
"I know how you feel about me zapping you anywhere,” Castiel says a bit sourly.  
  
No comfort is forthcoming on that front from Dean. “Nausea vs. constipation,” he says. “Great. Can I take what’s behind door number 3?”  
  
Castiel sighs and lays a hand on Dean’s thigh. “Dean, please try to relax.”  
  
“I’m trying, but–”  
  
And all at once Dean stops. He stops and he looks down at the place where Castiel’s fingers are spread. And for the first time since the Ferris wheel lurched into motion, there’s some color in his cheeks. It gives Castiel a bit of hope.  
  
“Hey, Cas?” he says. “Could you… not?”  
  
Castiel withdraws his hand quickly, and Dean goes back to looking over the edge of the Ferris wheel, groaning. His face is ashen again. And that’s when it occurs to Castiel.  
  
“You don’t need to relax,” he says. “You need to be distracted.”  
  
Dean turns. “I need to be wha–” And that’s as far as he gets.  
  
And it’s quite remarkable for Castiel, too – for the moment their lips are touching, Dean’s thoughts, that jumbled mess of brainwave activity that dizzies Castiel just through proximity, quiet entirely. And it’s just sensation, just a kiss and bodily warmth and the glimmer of a connection that until now has gone unspoken, unthought-of.  
  
Their lips part. Dean is staring at him through wide, pale eyes.   
  
“That’s distraction,” he says, and clears his throat.  
  
“Among other things,” Castiel hears himself say, and now he’s the nervous one.  
  
But before Dean can question that, the Ferris wheel lurches into motion, and Dean’s clutching the seat and swearing to high heaven once more that he’s gonna die.   
  
Fair enough. Castiel needs time to process what’s just happened. With any luck, they’ll both know what to do next by the time they reach solid ground.

* * *

**Anonymous asked you: Destiel, Everyone Can See It. :D and Anonymous asked you: Sterek Everyone can see it?**

(How in the hell could I resist doing this?)

[Everyone Can See It](http://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Main/EveryoneCanSeeIt)

“You’re not allowed to kill him,” Stiles says, raising his skinny arms and holding them wide, the worst goalie in history. Behind him, Derek, still reeling from the blow, looks up at the unfamiliar hunter through bleary eyes.  
  
Dean lifts his eyebrows. “And why’s that?” he asks.  
  
“For one thing, he doesn’t kill other people. I mean, he’s tried, but it never worked out that he had to, mostly because Scott and I stopped him, but the fact is he’s still pretty much a non-killing type, and I’m talking too much aren’t I?”   
  
The cock of Dean’s shotgun is pretty much affirmation of that. Stiles starts to shake. Hard. There’s no way he can hold these guys off.  
  
“Stiles.” Derek says, struggling to his feet. “Get out of the way.”  
  
Stiles looks over his shoulder. “No way. He’s trying to kill you.”  
  
“He thinks I can’t control the change,” Derek says. He takes a deep breath and puts a hand on Stiles’ shoulder, moving him away gently. “Hunter,” he says. “I get it. Most of the werewolves you’ve met can’t control themselves at the full moon. But look at me. Do I look like I have anything less than complete control over my transformation?”  
  
Dean just lifts the gun, presses the end of it to Derek’s forehead.  
  
“Derek, no,” Stiles whispers. Derek just closes his eyes and waits for impact.  
  
It never comes. And slowly, the gun lowers.   
  
A hand has landed on Dean’s shoulder, and from nowhere, another man has appeared, and has caught Dean’s attention completely without saying a word. Dean and the stranger stare at each other, forgetting for several seconds that werewolves and full moons and skinny humans who talk too much even exist.   
  
Finally Dean breaks the silence. “What?” he says.  
  
“I don’t think they deserve your shotgun’s judgment,” the stranger says in even tones.   
  
“Yeah, Cas, I got that.” Dean glances at Stiles and Derek, but only briefly; his gaze is locked into Cas’s completely. “Question is, why? Other than the young-love bit.”  
  
“Wait, what?” Stiles starts. He turns to Derek. “You’re in love?”  
  
“With you, dumbass,” Dean says. “And the feeling is mutual. All right, all right, I’ll let you go, but only because you’re a-frickin-dorable together. Makes me want to gag.”  
  
Stiles just gapes. Derek, on the other hand smiles slyly. “And you’re one to talk,” he says. “Thanks for stopping the meaningful looks long enough to spare my life. Get a room, would you?”  
  
He turns tail and stalks off, followed by a suddenly very nervous and anxious to talk-it-out Stiles, and leaving a speechless Dean in his wake.

* * *

**soullistrations asked you: The Stars Are Going Out or Cassandra Truth with one of the angels in SPN? (It can totally be Dean/Cas, but that might not fit)**

[The Stars Are Going Out](http://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Main/TheStarsAreGoingOut)

Castiel feels it from the edge of the universe. An explosion, but the stardust doesn’t spread into the blackness to become a nebula, to birth new stars. It just goes, matter into nothing, an unfolding of creation. He catches his breath and prays he can ignore it.

Then the second shockwave comes.

He’s outside the motel when Dean comes out for a stretch of the ol’ legs and maybe a late-night beer in the cool night air. The bottle hits the dirt and spills amber gold onto thirsty cobblestones.

“What?” Dean says. He’s fairly sure he doesn’t wanna know.

Castiel points skyward. “There was a star there,” he says. “Between Vega and that other. It’s not there now.

Dean blinks. "Wait a sec. A star disappeared?”

If it weren’t for Castiel’s ashen face, Dean would laugh the whole thing off.

“But, I thought we were looking at how the stars were billions of years ago, cause of the speed of light.”

“The darkness,” Castiel says, “is traveling faster.”

And Dean still wants to laugh. But then Vega disappears.

He grabs Castiel’s hand.


	12. Men of Letters HQ fics

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two short fics based in the Men of Letters HQ. Both gen.

**The first of the MoL HQ fics**

_Prompt by blueboxparchment, I can’t claim credit for the concept!_  
  
“Forget it,” Dean said.  
  
“But Dean…”  
  
“I’m not letting him in. He can’t be trusted.”  
  
Benny starts, but Charlie gives him the dagger-eye. “I told you, let us handle this.” She turns to Dean. “Look, I get the feeling, but you’re being a bit unreasonable, Dean.”  
  
“Unreasonable?” Dean scoffs. “Just look at the guy. Freakin’ creepy-ass bloodsucker.”  
  
“Um, Dean,” Kevin says, “somehow I doubt he’s going to hurt you.”  
  
“Just seeing his face hurts me.”  
  
Benny has to chime in at this point. “Dean, brother. This is me we’re talkin’ about. I’m not gonna let any harm come to you, not after what you’ve done for me.”  
  
“Well.” Dean’s gaze shifts. “As long as you make sure I don’t have to view a frame of it.”  
  
And in the end, much to Dean’s chagrin, he lets the copy of Twilight, Edward Cullen’s obnoxious vampire face included, into the bunker.  
  
   
_“I know what you are.”_  
  
_“Say it.”_  
  
“Oh, for the love a’…” Benny stands up, and it’s only Charlie’s quick reflxes that keep chilled blood and popcorn from spilling all over the carpet. “I'mma just… head over to the library for a bit–”  
  
Charlie’s and Kevin’s hands on his shoulders force him down. “No way. You’re watching this,” Kevin says.  
  
“You missed a lot,” Charlie chimes in. “Lestat, Spike, Damon, Bill… and now Edward.”  
  
“Seems to me I didn’t miss much.”  
  
“You have to keep up to date on what the public thinks about vampires,” Kevin says. “That way you can avoid arousing suspicion.”  
  
“I was doin’ just fine as a fry cook–”  
  
“Until you weren’t. Now sit down,” Charlie informs him. “Look, all you have to do is act as little like this guy as possible.”  
  
“Not hard,” Benny says.  
  
“Oh, really?”  
  
Benny frowns at her. “What does that mean?”  
  
“Well. Not to be indelicate, but we heard about the whole lost-love thing. That whole thing was pretty Cullen.”  
  
“I’m still disappointed he doesn’t sparkle,” Kevin grumps.  
  
“I’m not.”  
  
Benny raises a hand. “Me neither.”  
  
“But you’re not burned by sunlight, either,” Charlie muses. “So what about vampires is true, if staking doesn’t work and you can still get a tan?”  
  
“The blood-sucking thing,” Kevin points out.  
  
Charlie shifts away from Benny on the couch. “Oh, yeah, that.”  
  
“I got it under control, sister,” Benny informs her flatly.  
  
She smiles sweetly. “Of course you do.”  
  
“Anyway, never mind him, what is she s'posed to be?” Benny says, hooking a thumb toward the screen.  
  
“Who, Bella?” Kevin starts. “She’s just a hu–”  
  
But then he frowns at the screen. “You know something?” he says. “I don’t know.”  
  
“She’s scarier than he is,” Benny remarks.  
  
On the other side of him, Charlie just whimpers.

* * *

**morningxfine asked you: Tippy, would you considering writing a MOL HQ ft Aaron and the Golem? Maybe the three (four?) of them sharing a beer and Dean keeps flirting by accident? :)**

Aaron doesn’t answer the call until Saturday night.  
  
“What the hell, dude?” Dean says. “We coulda used your help with this thing earlier.”  
  
“No electricity on Shabbat,” Aaron says wearily. “He guilted me into it. Price of compliance is a bacon cheeseburger once a month. Once a month, Dean. I’m _dying.”_  
  
“Don’t blame you. Anyway, so we’ve got this thing called a dybbuk. Any chance you and the big guy can help out?”  
  
One Hebrew exorcism (and some furniture breakage) later, Dean picks up some Manischevitz and invites the duo back to the hub for a drink.

  
“Really, I can just have beer,” Aaron says, but the golem happily accepts the bottle. Dean notes with amusement that he drinks it from a wine glass, his little finger extended. For a guy made out of clay, he seems awfully relaxed in the hall of the Men of Letters… maybe it was just the old-fashioned trappings, but Dean was fairly sure he saw the big guy crack a smile.  
  
“Does he have a name?” Dean says three beers in, leaning over the table.  
  
Aaron looks down for a second and blushes before shaking himself out of it. “Him?” he says, nodding at the golem, who has started humming absently to the tune of the old record playing in the background and doesn’t appear to notice he’s being talked about.  
  
“Yeah. You can’t go around just calling him ‘Golem’ the whole time. What about Marvin? He looks like a Marvin to me.”  
  
Aaron wrinkles his nose. “No way. Marvin’s not even a Jewish name. It’s a… a paranoid-android name.”  
  
“OK, let’s go for authenticity, then.” Dean tilts his head, thinking hard. “…Levi.”  
  
“He’s not a pair of jeans, Dean,” Aaron snaps.  
  
“What? I’m trying to help.” Dean makes a face at him.  
  
“Why do you care what his name is, anyway?”  
  
Dean laughs. “You’re jealous.”  
  
“Shut up. I’m not.”  
  
“Because we had a 'moment.’”  
  
“We didn’t. I was tailing you, remember?”  
  
Dean grins hard. “Right. No moment, nothing, you’re not jealous I’m paying attention to the other man in the room.”  
  
Aaron groans. “You’d like it if I was, wouldn’t you?”  
  
Dean fights hard to toss the grin from his face. “'Course not,” he says, clearing his throat hard. “I’m just saying. If you were jealous, it wouldn’t be so surprising.”  
  
“Because you’re such a prize.” Aaron rolls his eyes. Dean just shrugs.  
  
“Anyway,” Dean says. “Off topic. Why don’t we ask him what he wants to be called? Hey. Clayface.” He pounds on the table until the inebriated golem pays attention. “You got a name? You want a name?”  
  
“It is not my place to have a name,” the golem answers. “The only name that matters is that of my master.”  
  
“But if you had one, what would it be?”  
  
“It is not my place,’ the golem declares again, scowling. "If you give me a name, you would be releasing your hold on me. I would become my own creature and have free will.”  
  
Aaron blinks. “I would?”  
  
“No name, then. No name. Unaffiliated golem, bad idea. Bad,” Dean insists.  
  
“Don’t you think I should ask him that?” Aaron turns to the golem. “Do you want a name? Do you want to be free?”  
  
The golem pauses and hiccups. “I have no desire to be left alone in this world,” he says finally. “Perhaps someday. But not now.”  
  
And Dean thinks he’s seeing Aaron and the golem have a “moment” now, but he’s not gonna mention that.  
  
Aaron sighs. “Well, maybe if i can’t name you, I could at least call you what you are. Supposing I call you Clay. That’s not a name, right? It’s just a description. Nu?”  
  
The golem out-and-out grins. “That is acceptable. You may call me Clay.”  
  
“Wait a sec,” Dean interrupts. “So you can give him a name that’s not a name just by making sure the name is what he is? What kind of weirdo nonsense logic is that?”  
  
Aaron smirks at him. “Dean,” he says proudly, “that’s exactly what rabbis do.”

 


	13. on the edge of a cliff

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean's worried about Sam, and he could use a friend in Cas.

Nights like this Dean’s got nothing to worry about. Which of course makes the worrying worse.

He paces back and forth in his little room, looks at the sharp gleam of metal on the guns he’s hung up, watches his reflection in one of the blades suspiciously, then turns – quickly – as though somehow the landscape in front of him is gonna change.

It doesn’t. Same old bedroom. Same old quiet night.

Sam probably in bed, sleeping, but Dean doesn’t _know_ that, Dean doesn’t _know_ anything about Sammy right now. It’s all guessing and hoping and praying things aren’t as bad as they could be. Well. He knows one thing. He knows everything’s not all right. How could it be?

He wants to climb the walls. He wants to bust out of this den they’re holed up in and take the car and drive and drive.

Highways here aren’t even a straight shot for him to floor it on. Too many hills, too many curves. He’d have to pay attention or he’d go off a cliff.

_So I’m Thelma and you’re Louise, and we’ll sail off this cliff together._

Doing it alone’s no fun. He hasn’t even got his friggin’ Louise around.

Like he needs to worry about that, too. He can’t. He can’t worry about Sam and Cas at the same time, it’s too much worry to bear. And nobody can share it, nobody can relieve it.

God, he just wants Cas back here if just for a moment, to share, to understand, to listen.

Sammy’s gotta lean on Dean, and Dean… he’s never needed anybody to lean on…

_A thousand days in Purgatory, the same words each time,_ where’s the angel _?_

Is this where he’s ended up? After dying and dying and going God and forgetting him and pushing him away and making him go home alone, Dean still hasn’t learned not to count on the guy? Not to lean on him? Not to wish he was there, even knowing there is something really wrong with _him_ , too?

God _damn_ it, he hasn’t learned a thing.

And if Cas were to show up in the reflection of that blade on the wall (not that Dean’s been looking, hoping, with every pace), Dean would just turn, and not be able to speak, not until he was crushed against that damn coat, his head pressed into Cas’s neck just to breathe him, to smell skin and hair. And his hands would be fists clutching at as much as he could get at, coat and jacket and shirt if not skin, and he’d be hanging on like he was on the edge of that cliff, terrified to let go, terrified to fall thousands of feet into loneliness again.

He’s got nothing to worry about, he’s got no reason to feel that way.

Damn it, Cas, _show up._


	14. Where the hell are you?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As Dean prays to Cas in the bunker, Cas is there.

“Where the hell are you, man?”

And you reach out in the dark but no, not yet, you can’t answer yet. You’re not strong enough, the pain behind your eye still stays your hand.

A minute ago, he turned around, expecting to see you. You watched the expression on his face slide from easy expectation to ambivalence to disappointment to fear. A single touch and you could have reversed that course. You were there the whole time. With your ears on, as he likes to say. Close enough that you could feel his heavy exhalation just before he turned back.

But you’ve never been able to touch. Even before all this. He’s always been the one to touch: a slap on the back, an arm around your shoulder, oh God an embrace that everything in you wanted to return but you couldn’t, you couldn’t.

You got to grip him tight once, and that was all.

Your hand still burns with the memory. And the memory of pushing him away, of letting him go, not letting him pull you back to earth as you pulled him once.

You fear he will never trust your touch again. And now, as he prays and you don’t appear, you fear he is slowly letting go of you in his heart.

It’s only fair. You let go of him.

“Of course I’ll watch over Sam,” you say, in the dark, words unheard. “I’ll watch over both of you.”

He just slumps forward, his head in his hands.


	15. Let There Be Light

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean and Cas reunite.

When he appears, it’s like “Let there be light.”

It’s like the universe begins right then. And nothing I’ve done or said or prayed before matters. None of the times he didn’t come matters. He’s there, and nothing happened before he got there.

I never waited during a long night. I never whispered anything embarrassing into a dark room, the kind of thing I’d never admit to saying. I never put my head in my hands or knocked back a bottle because I couldn’t stand to face it all alone.

He appears, he’s there, and that’s all there is.

My body moves before the rest of me. My voice is still trying to break free. My brain’s frozen solid.

But my body’s moving. My legs are in a full-tilt run. My arms are out like I’m gonna take off, but they’re curling forward, and they reach him before the rest of me, grab his arms, let go, lock onto his shoulders and slide back. Then my chest hits his chest and then my face hits his shoulder and then his hands are on my back too and that’s never happened before.

I mean, he’s hugged me before. He was crazy at the time and it was a kind of a group thing with Sam and it’s not really worth talking about, but he has. And I hugged him. At least once. But he’s never hugged me and I hugged him at the same time, and something happens with that. It’s like, with his arms around me and my arms around him, the rest of the universe just falls away.

Imagine that. A minute ago he appeared and the universe was created, and now we’re hugging and it’s gone again. Short universe.

But without the world, with just him and just me, I can ask. “Did you hear?” My voice breaks against his neck like a wave that’s tried to form too close to the shore. “Did you hear me, Cas? Any of it?”

He takes in a breath. I feel it, cold wind sucked through the air, near my ear.

“Every word.”

And there’s more that he doesn’t say, about why and why not and why now, and I don’t need to hear it.

My mouth finds his mouth, and I suck in a little of that breath. It’s gone suddenly hot.

I draw back. His eyes are wide.

Let there be light.


	16. Hey, It Could Happen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Misha faces the fans, knowing Dean/Cas will become canon soon. (Based on an actual con question).

“So my question is, what do you think of Destiel?”

The same question he gets asked a million times over. And he defaults to his usual, which is joking about it. And he mentions the line that was cut, even though the context of the line mentioned family and “like you’re a brother,” and he gives them a little bit of hell about how convention audiences have changed, but they’re not the ones who have changed.

Nope. He’s the one who’s changed. He’s the one who’s gotta be twice as stand-offish and twice as careful as usual, because this time, he can’t tip his hand.

_We’re going for this, guys. We want to go for it, but we need to make sure you’re good with it first._

“Nobody talks about it,” he says in response to the question, but when he says nobody he’s thinking about Jensen, who sighed a bit and said “I had a feeling that’s what you were gonna ask us about,” and “I gotta think about it” and sort of stalked off, leaving Misha alone in the office with Jeremy, who looked him square in the eye and said,

_Misha, I know you’re good with this. Jensen’s gonna take some working on, but you know we’ve got to do this, right?_

_Here’s the thing… We gotta be doing this for the right reasons. We gotta be doing this for…_

_…For Dean’s sake, for his character. I’m not buying into the cute-couple thing any more than you are. This is about giving Dean a reason to grow.  
_

“Pervs,” Misha calls the audience, just to throw them off. Because from what Jeremy has mentioned, this is gonna be anything but pervy – a kiss, maybe. Waking up together. But mostly, it’s gonna be more of the same… the same slow burn that’s been happening for seasons now, just out in the open, reinforced with words. _  
_

_So it’s all about Dean. What’s in it for me, huh?  
_

_Well, that’s the other thing I wanted to ask you about. You want to come on board full-time next season?  
_

_Wait. I’m being upped to love-interest status?_

_You got a problem with it?  
_

_Not personally. You know I gotta send you to my agent about the terms, though.  
_

_I can hardly wait.  
_

Jensen’s come around by now, Misha’s sure. They haven’t talked about it, and he has a feeling they might not – not until they have to. But the regular upgrade came through, which can only mean one thing. Misha can read the signs.

“Feel free to slip in more of that sort of thing,” the fan says.

And because that’s totally not the way it’s going, and because Misha’s all about misdirection, he dashes off, “Just the tip.”

The audience goes wild. They still have no idea. Misdirection accomplished, for now.


	17. the gates are about to close

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Castiel must choose between worlds.

Castiel is caught between two worlds. The gates of heaven are closing fast. Naomi and the others reach out to him. He sees their plan now, he knows their intentions were righteous, even if the execution was… primitive. And longing for his old home tears him apart, makes him want to take wing into the air and fly through that blinding, narrowing circle of light into the only place he’s ever called home.  
  
But on the other side are Sam and Dean. And earth, and God’s creatures, bound together by no greater glue than their common humanity, formed out of mud and a little divine breath and yet so full of potential, so full of accomplishment in the short years they’ve been on earth.  
  
One side has eternity; the other, a future. He’s torn.  
  
“Hurry, Castiel,” Naomi calls, reaching out her hand. She’s brilliantly beautiful beyond the simple aesthetics of her human guise, and his own human heart beats faster with every moment he stares. “Hurry, come home to us. We need you.”  
  
Castiel looks down. Far below him, Dean and Sam are looking up. Not reaching out to him. Waiting.  
  
“What do I do?” he calls down.   
  
Dean’s fists clench, and he looks at Sam. Sam nods.  
  
“Whatever you feel is right, Cas,” Sam shouts up. “It’s your decision.”  
  
“I won’t see you again,” Castiel says. “Not in this life.”  
  
“That’s just the thing.” Sam squints; the portal must be searing his eyes. “It’s your life. You get to make the decision.”  
  
Dean looks up now, and the set of his jaw is that same steel-hard thing Castiel has grown to know means he’s past the limit of his emotional strength. “Cas,” he says, and his words are clipped. “Cas, you go where you gotta go. If that means goodbye, then…” He takes a breath. “Goodbye. And thanks, man.”  
  
“Yeah,” Sam says. “Thanks for everything.”  
  
Only seconds now, and never in his many, many years have seconds gone by so slowly. They’re letting him go. His home needs him. Heaven needs him.  
  
“Please,” Naomi says, and the chorus of angels behind her reach out. “Castiel, we need your wisdom. We need your leadership. Come home to us.”  
  
“Home,” Castiel echoes, meeting her gaze. “That’s where I want to go. My home…”  
  
Her face relaxes into a relieved smile, and her hands curl to welcome him.  
  
Then they tense, and clutch at air, and she screams. “Castiel, no!”  
  
The grace pours out of him, white light and sparking heat, and he hurls it upward. Where it meets the portal, an explosion rocks both heaven and earth. A tree cracks open and falls. The sidewalk shudders and cracks. The sky splits apart.  
  
And then it’s whole again, and blue, and Castiel is falling.  
  
His body is limp, and Dean runs, positions himself under Cas and reaches out his arms. Sam follows, and together they break the freefall of the crumpled body as best they can. But the impact still knocks them to the earth, and Castiel’s head slips from Dean’s grasp, splits on the sidewalk and starts to ooze blood.  
  
“Oh, God,” he hears Dean say before he loses consciousness.  
  
* * *  
  
Dead dead no he can’t be he can’t be dead, he can’t be, they just got him back and now he’s gonna crack his head on the sidewalk and die like a stupid motherfucker, god damn it Cas…  
  
Sam’s pulling him away. “Dean. Dean, let me see, come on…”  
  
“No.” Stupid word pouring out of his mouth over and over again. “No no no no no.”  
  
“Dean…” but after a minute Sam stops, and he picks up one of Cas’s wrists, limp wrist limp hand not moving no no Dean can’t look, and a minute later he drops it.  
  
“Is he?” Dean manages. Sam doesn’t answer, and Dean doesn’t look to see if he’s nodding or shaking his head. He’s just looking at Cas’s face, his stupid slack face, eyes closed and blood matting through his hair and caking it, black strands in brown, and his grace is gone and his soul is gone and this time Dean’s sure it’s the end, for real, forever.  
  
But he was OK with that a minute ago, he said goodbye, he said thank you, if Cas had passed through that portal and gone home Dean woulda walked away and gotten a burger and thought someday I’m gonna see him again, when this life finally gets to me, we’ll hang out in Heaven and wait for Sam to show up 50 years later lookin’ old and happy. He was OK with that. He should be OK with this.  
  
Maybe he just needs to say goodbye.  
  
“Sam,” he says, in a low voice. “You might wanna look away.”  
  
Sam straightens up, clears his throat, and turns.  
  
Dean cradles Castiel’s head in his arms. Leans down. “I’m sorry, man,” he says. “Couldn’t save you this time either.”  
  
And for no reason he knows of, he lowers his lips down onto Castiel’s, a bare whisper of a kiss. Pressing, a second, and then gone.  
  
And then Castiel coughs.  
  
Dean jumps and nearly lets Castiel’s head fall and crack on the sidewalk again. “Holy–”  
  
“I tried to tell you he was just unconscious,” Sam says, turning back and crossing his arms over his chest and smiling in that smug told-you-so way of his. Castiel coughs a few more times; a little blood has collected at his lip, and he licks at it and shivers.   
  
“I think I need medical attention,” he says.  
  
Dean doesn’t know what to do. Laugh, cry, shoot himself, call a doctor, call a parade. He just half-laughs, sniffling.  
  
“Yeah, pal, you do,” Sam says, squatting beside him to help him sit up. “Let’s get you patched up.”  
  
Castiel allows himself to be lifted to his feet, but as soon as he’s upright, he turns over his shoulder and scowls at Dean.  
  
“Dean,” he says. “Did you… kiss me?”  
  
This time it’s Sam that nearly drops him. Dean takes in a shuddering breath. “Awkward,” he mutters.  
  
“Dean?” Sam’s looking over his shoulder now. “Did you…”  
  
“Can we get the guy some freakin’ help already?” Dean snaps. “What’s the matter with you? Get him in the car.”  
  
Sam shakes his head and does as ordered. Dean follows, stomping along as they head back to the car with their newly human, banged-up friend. Jeez. Some people just have no priorities.


	18. Doesn't Stop (sequel to The Gates Are About to Close)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where the first part was a season finale sort of thing, this is sort of a what-happens-during-the-following-season-in-bits-and-snatches.

Castiel drifts in and out of consciousness for a few days. He’s weak, and he doesn’t understand the sensations that are plaguing his body so overtly now that it’s his own and no longer a vessel to contain what he had been. Aches and pains, blood, anxiety, fatigue, all hit him hard, and Dean and Sam keep a close watch on him, help him recuperate.

Even after he’s able to get up, there’s so much he has to get used to. His body feeling dirty under the same clothes day after day, for example. For the first time in a long time, he changes clothes. (Plaid looks frighteningly good on him – another sign he’s meant to be a hunter, he points out in one of his attempts at humor. He gets twin grimaces; Sam at least forces a smile for a moment.) His body wears down long before he expects it to, and he keeps asking “Am I sick? Am I dying?” The answer is, inevitably, “No, you’re just human.”

In the meantime, the gates to hell are still open. Kevin has found one more trial, but Sam has yet to undergo it. For one thing, they’re having trouble getting spell ingredients without a continent-skipping angel on their side. For another, they still have Death’s warning ringing in their ears – try to bind me again, and you’ll be dead before you start. So instead of summoning the guy directly, they’re trying to get a reaper to extend the invitation. They’re still not sure what they’ll say to him once he actually arrives.

Their plates are kinda full

Doesn’t stop all the rest of it from happening.

 

Doesn’t stop Castiel, in a loose-fitting plaid shirt that was Sam’s in his pre-Gigantor days, from watching Dean load bullets with rock salt for a good ten minutes before clearing his throat. “Dean.”

Dean doesn’t look up. “Yeah?”

“Dean.” Damn it, he can feel that gaze. It wants him to meet it; it’s a damn persuasive gaze, really. He gives in. “What do you want, Cas?”

Castiel takes in a slow breath. “I’m wondering if we’re going to talk.” He shifts his weight. “About that.”

Time to turn back to bullet-stuffing as fast as humanly possible. “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Yes, you do.”

“No, I don’t.” He stops himself. Cause hearing Cas saying out loud would be horrifying. “Yeah, I do.” He points a finger at Cas. “No.”

Castiel blinks. Dean should feel bad for him, really. He’s even more at a loss than Dean is. But it’s too freaking embarrassing. “Oh. My mistake. I thought it was the sort of thing we– people– talk about.” He’s couching his words very carefully. They’re both on the defensive, Dean thinks.

He sighs, relents a little. “Cas, I was – I was all messed up in the head, all right? I thought I’d lost you.”

“You have lost me before.”

“Yeah, well, this time was different.” Can’t he leave it at that?

Apparently not. “Because I’m human? Or because you had the opportunity–”

Dean stiffens, and Castiel cuts off. In the silence, a slideshow flickers quick and dim across Dean’s mind. Cas exploding in Chuck’s house. And at the cemetery. And into a pool of water, Leviathans burning his body through. And letting go in Purgatory, pushing Dean through–

“I already said we’re not talking about this,” he says. “What part of no don’t you get?”

Castiel backs off. “I understand,” he says.

And he leaves it at that. He turns, walks toward the door.

“Cas,” Dean says.

Stop. Turn. Hopeful. “Yes?”

Rock salt bullets, damn it. Bullets. “Nothin’.”

“Oh.”

A beat.

“Dean.”

“What?”

Castiel looks him over. “Also nothing,” he says, and leaves the room.

———-

Doesn’t stop.

Doesn’t stop the army of black-eyed bastards advancing on Sam and Dean, pouring forth from the warehouse in an endless swarm that reminds Dean of an army of Uruk-hai and makes Sam look at him funny when he mentions it. They’re hiding out around a corner, waiting for the swarm to step into the traps they’ve painted all along the alleyway. It’ll be like shooting demons in a barrel.

Sam cocks his shotgun and says, out of nowhere, “So, how are you and Cas doing?”

“What?” Dean almost trips over his own boots. “What’s this me-and-Cas? There is no me-and-Cas. What the hell do you mean?”

Sam grins, and Dean gets that sinking just-stepped-into-a-tripwire feeling. “You tell me, dude. Have you guys talked about it?”

“Talked about what?” But nope, still too embarrassing to think of Sam saying it out loud, too. “No.” He points at Sam just like he did at Cas. “No.”

“OK, just asking.”

“Well, don’t. There’s nothing to ask about.”

“OK, OK, I get it.”

“Good.”

The first wave of demons comes around the bend ahead of the rest, and they don’t even have to shoot. Sam murmurs the exorcism and fells them before reinforcements catch wind of it. Now there’s a mountain of corpses, like sandbags, blocking their path. Dean misses the days demons used to regularly possess live people. Never happens anymore.

“You know he’s gonna come to me eventually, right?”

Dean groans. Holy mother of God, can’t anyone leave it alone?

“Dean. You know he’s gonna wanna talk about it with someone. He had to ask me in detail about why going to the bathroom was so strangely satisfying. He’s gonna ask.”

“Yeah, well… what are you gonna tell him?”

“Depends on what he asks me.”

“Wrong answer.” A demon peeks around the corner. Dean blows its head off. “You’re gonna tell him nothing, Sammy. Nothing. You hear me? Tell him to leave it alone.”

The sound of the gunshot brings the mother lode of demons swarming around the corner. Sam lifts his shotgun over his shoulder and takes aim. “You really think that’s gonna be the end of it?”

Dean’s too busy firing to answer.

——

Doesn’t stop Dean from calling Charlie, just to catch up. She asks him if he’s over his breakup yet. Somehow, Dean can’t bring himself to yell at her like he’s yelled at everyone else.

——-

Doesn’t stop Castiel from trying, one more time.

“So the reaper has granted Sam an audience with Death,” he says.

“Tell me something I don’t know,” Dean says, whittling his stake. He’s got nothing in mind to slay with it,but stake-whittling has always been a good use for nervous hands. Besides, he likes the way the wood peels off into ribbon-like curls on the floor.

“Are you nervous?”

“Nervous?” Dean looks at him sidelong. “I’m not the one who’s got to convince Death to allow him access to the Mouth of Hell. Compared to Sammy, I’m sitting pretty.”

And Castiel sits beside him, picks up one of the curling shaves of wood from the floor and twirls it between his fingers. The fireplace casts red light on his face and on the shaving, and a strange curling dark shadow falls on Castiel’s cheek where the wood blocks the light. Dean looks at it until he realizes he’s looking, and he casts his gaze away as quickly as he can.

“It doesn’t have to be you in danger for you to be nervous,” Castiel notes. “There doesn’t have to be any danger at all. I’m surprised at how nervous I seem to get at the least provocation.”

“Human condition,” Dean says with a shrug. “Lesson No. 1, not knowing.”

“Which is why it’s frustrating when I ask and don’t get an answer.”

Dean’s knife falters. He scowls at Castiel. “You’re not going there again.”

Castiel meets his gaze, “It would ease my nerves,” he says. “I don’t like being nervous whenever I’m around you, Dean. Especially since I can’t pinpoint why.”

“Just let it go.” Dean’s surprised by the pleading in his own voice. “Just forget about it and then we can go back to being buddies again. No nerves, no nothing.”

Castiel shakes his head. “I’m not sure that’s what I want.”

“Well, it’s all you’re gonna get.” Dean clenches his fist around the knife and cuts a too-deep groove into the stake, scowling at it instead of Cas. “C'mon, Cas, we got bigger fish to fry than this. Priorities, man.”

“Right,” Castiel says, and settles back, watching the fire. “Priorities.”

That’s when Dean realizes he’d probably better check in with Sam before the whole Death thing goes down.

—-

“I’m good,” is all Sam says. If Dean could strike that phrase from Sam’s vocabulary forever, he’d do it.

“No, seriously.”

“Seriously. I’m good. Dean, the more I think about it the more I’m glad it was me who did that first trial. No offense, but… you’re not exactly the poster child for persuading people to see the up side of things.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m a bucket of fun.” It sounds a lot less convincing than it did five (or forty-five) years ago. “Anyway, for what it’s worth, Death’s not a bad guy… for, you know, Death. He might ask you do to something crazy, but if you go with it, he’ll probably bite. Just keep your head, Sammy. You suckered that manwitch all those years ago, you can do this.”

“You remember that, huh?” Sam grins.

“Course I remember it. Proud moment. Knowing I’d taught you well.”

“You lost to that manwitch, the way I recall it.”

“Shut up.”

Sam raises his hands in benign surrender. “Got it. Hey, Dean, thanks for the advice.”

Dean isn’t expecting that. He tries to shrug it off. Patting Sam on the shoulder, he heads for the door.

“Can I give you some advice back?”

Oh-shit.

“Talk to Cas. Dude, you kissed him. Be a man about it, ya know? Take responsibility.”

He’s talking like Dean knocked the poor guy up or something. “Why are you so keen on this?”

“Because it’s you. And it’s Cas. Look, I want you to be happy. I don’t care what shape that takes, it’s nothing to do with me. I just don’t want you closing any doors that’ll just hurt you in the end.”

“That’s not what I–” Dean pauses in the doorway, bangs his head against it. “Doesn’t it freak you out? The whole concept.”

And Sam shrugs and smiles. “The things we’ve been through, the things we’ve seen. Why would this freak me out?”

Dean’s got no answer. “Get some sleep, Sammy,” he says instead.

—–

Castiel’s still sitting on the floor by the dying fire, turning over slivers of wood in his hand. It’s three a.m. Tomorrow they escort Sam to the mouth of hell.

Doesn’t stop Dean.

He crosses the room, drops to his knees, and presses his hands against Castiel’s face. “Don’t say a word,” he warns, and kisses him.


	19. Inspired by art

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another piece inspired by fanart.

_Inspired by this piece:<http://camacaileon.tumblr.com/post/47311227442/a-bit-destiel-for-you>_  
  
Castiel gets up early, mostly because sleep for him is a foreign thing to begin with and he only really does it because Dean likes the feeling of falling asleep with him close. But once Dean’s asleep, it’s an exercise in patience for Castiel, and when the sun rises he awakens irrevocably and  completely.  
  
He goes out for a walk, looks at the sunrise and the trees and the birds, or if there are none just analyzes the cracks in the pavement and reads the history of old buildings from laying his hand on their bricks. It’s a quiet and special time for him, and he returns to Dean’s room feeling as though the day has already delivered on its promise of infinite possibilities. Nothing could go wrong now. It’s just a matter of what could go even more right.  
  
And what’s more right is Dean awake, eyes half-lidded, covers thrown off. He looks delicious there, shirt riding up so his stomach is showing, legs bent as he stretches them one by one. “Cas,” he murmurs, and reaches out both his hands.  
  
He’s sleep-warm, wonderful , and his hands on Castiel’s back are small suns radiating heat through bone and muscle. Halfway through the embrace and welcoming kiss, one loses its grip and slides down, limp, to rest on Castiel’s hip. He’s still groggy, and Castiel smiles into the kiss at how half-there, how sleepy and vulnerable he still is. Castiel gets to see him like this. It’s so nice.  
  
And then the alarm clock, undoubtedly “snoozed” since five a.m., starts ringing again, and Dean groans and twitches. Castiel acts fast, lifting one hand to seal it over Dean’s ear. It probably doesn’t mute the sound entirely, but it enables the kiss to go on just a little longer, and from the way Dean tugs on his coat, palm pressing down in a grateful squeeze, Castiel figures he’s done something else right this morning.


	20. Charlie Reads Carver: Lazarus Rising

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charlie Bradbury reads Carver Edlund. And reacts.

_Dean couldn’t move. But he could get to his pocket. He pulled out his lighter and illuminated the coffin._

“You idiot,” Charlie said to the computer, “you’re eating up the oxygen.”

She sniffled when Dean and Bobby hugged hello, dabbed her eyes when Sam and Dean reunited, and called “Crissy” being  Ruby a good fifteen pages in advance of it actually happening. But Charlie was stumped as to how Dean got out of hell. That is, until she got her first clue.

_“Castiel?” Pamela said, her head cocking. An expression of stubborn determination set on her face. “Sorry, Castiel, I don’t scare easily.”_

“Castiel.” Charlie grinned, wrote the name down on the yellow pad next to her computer, and stared at it. “That’s it, I’m gonna figure out what you are.” She minimized her e-book reader and opened a Chrome tab, typing in the name and watching as the hits lined up. _Did you mean Castle?_ Google asked, and Charlie rolled her eyes. Google should STFU and just bring up the search results.

Castiel as the name of a construction company. Nope. Dean wasn’t pulled out of hell by a pile driver or a crane.

Cast I: Elle Woods played by Laura Bell Bundy.No, Broadway had nothing to do with it.

Castiel, angel of Thursday.

Wait, what the frak? Angels?

But then again, it could happen… this was a big wide world, after all…

_The lights blew out in a shower of sparks. Dean and Bobby looked up, alarmed, and almost missed the slow opening of the barn doors._

_He walked in slowly, his footfalls measured on the ground, ignoring the spray of sparks around him. The tan trenchcoat he was wearing flapped in the wind, but he was unruffled, calm as he made his slow way toward Dean and Bobby. They emptied clip after clip into him, but nothing slowed him down or even made him flinch. Terrified but fascinated, Dean went for the demon-killing knife.  
_

“Idiot,” Charlie said again. “The rounds didn’t do anything, the knife’s not gonna…” But her mind was whirling already on the _terrified but fascinated_ part.

_The knife sank into the stranger’s chest. He just smiled. Dean looked up into the most intense blue eyes he’d ever seen._

“I _told_ you.” Charlie wished she could reach through the screen and whap him. Honestly, so he’s been dead for four months, that does not excuse being braindead now of all times. Unless there was something hypnotizing about those eyes.

_“I’m an angel of the lord,” Castiel said._

“Totally called it!” Charlie spun around in her chair. She wished she had a clone or a figurine nearby to high-five.

But what really caught her attention was the dialogue after that fact was established. Not just the dialogue. What went on between the spoken lines. Like:

_“Good things do happen,” Castiel said, his vice strangely hypnotic, and he walked up to Dean . This close, Dean was sure he could fee the energy of the angel’s presence radiating through him. It was hot and terrifying and exciting, and he couldn’t tear his gaze away from Castiel’s incredible blue eyes._

And like:

_“You don’t think you deserve to be saved.”_

_The words were like a shot through Dean’s gut. All of a sudden he had the feeling this person, this angel, knew all about him, and worse, he understood him – and Dean wasn’t used to being understood. He was exposed, bare in the face of this all-encompassing gaze, and a piece of him wanted to reach out and hang on to this little piece of hope that had arrived in the form of a maybe-angel with his tousled hair and pursed lips and intense eyes. He’d never wanted to hang on to anything before, and the need scared the hell out of him. At the same time, it was awakening something in him that he couldn’t put back to sleep again. Castiel had taken him from hell, and put him back on this earth, but he’d also changed him, just through his existence.  
_

“Oh, my God,” Charlie said, slapping her hands over her mouth to keep from cackling wildly. “Oh, my God, oh my God Dean, Dean, you’re totally crushing on him!”

And she couldn’t help it. She folded her arms on the desk and collapsed forward onto them, giggling hysterically.

Honestly, it explained so much about Dean. _So_ much.


	21. Charlie Reads Carver: Are You There, God? It’s Me, Dean

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charlie reads the next book and comes to a disturbing revelation.

_With apologies to Judy Blume,_ reads the intro. Charlie rolls her eyes. She could never get into Judy Blume back in the day. She was too into Ursula K. LeGuin and Lloyd Alexander and C.S. Lewis. Who wanted to read about girls liking boys and getting their periods when you could be reading about swordfights and dragons and talking lions?

_“All I know is, I wasn’t groped by an angel,” Dean said with a peevish look.  
_

“Oh, yes you were,” Charlie says, leaning on her hand. “And what’s more, you liked it.”

She’s hoping Castiel makes an appearance in this book, even though he hasn’t shown up yet. She dug his entrance. She’s also hoping for a little more Pamela, who, fictional or no, Charlie kind of got hot under the collar about. Which reminds her, she’s going to have to find out if these books are true. So far, they read _so_ much like the Sam and Dean she knows that either another poor sap who had to deal with them was entranced enough to write fanfiction or it’s all real.

Didn’t they mention something about a prophet before? Maybe that’s how these things got online. She can’t imagine being locked into the Winchester psyche day and night until you have to chronicle it all. It would probably kill her.

Never mind that she’s been able to think of nothing but the Winchesters and what they do and what she’s seen (and let’s not mention the fairy she almost bedded) since the last time she said goodbye to them. At least she could turn it off if she wanted.

She thinks. Maybe. Possibly.

_Sam whirled. Standing behind him in the bathroom was FBI Agent Henricksen._

“Oh, no!” Charlie leans forward, socking her forehead against her palm. This is going to be painful, isn’t it? How many of these guys’ old problems are going to come back to haunt them?

_It was Meg. But not demon Meg. This Meg looked like the sweet, quiet kind of girl that a demon like Meg would jump into and possess. Dean’s heart twinged._

“Dean’s heart doesn’t twinge,” Charlie says to the computer. Seriously, if it is a prophet, couldn’t he at least take a writing course? This prose was awful. It was bad enough when Sam whirled, and then Henricksen was standing _behind_ him. If he’d already whirled, the guy ought to be in front of him. But enough. This is a crap situation. Crappy writing just makes it that much worse. _  
_

_Blam! went the shotgun. Bobby kept chanting._

_The windows flew open. A gust of wind blew in.  
_

_“_ A—nd there goes your line of salt,” Charlie says.

_The salt line was blown. Ronald stepped past the scattered grains into the living room._

“Bingo.” And now she’s getting pissed. Forget bad writing, where’s the continuity here? A freaking angel goes to get Dean out of hell and now he’s just going to leave the three of them to die at the hands of some rabid ghosts? How does this make sense?

God, she’s relieved when Dean calls Castiel on that very oversight later on. But not as relieved as she is really skeeved out that Castiel apparently was watching Dean sleep and just waiting for him to wake up.

_The angel came closer. Dean was rooted to the spot. Somehow he couldn’t retreat, even as Castiel pressed further. They were practically nose to nose._

“Oh, no.” Charlie’s reading through the gaps between her fingers at this point. “They’re totally gonna kiss.”

_“You should show me some respect,” Castiel said. His voice carried with it the weight of heaven’s wrath. “I dragged you out of hell. I can throw you back in.”_

_Dean blinked. The angel was gone.  
_

“What?” Charlie re-reads it. “No, you were supposed to kiss! Damn it–”

A third time, and now all the bad writing – seriously, someone had to tell this guy to stop using “the angel” all the time, and seriously, “the weight of heaven’s wrath”? – is so painfully obvious she can barely stand it. Seriously, 50 Shades could stand up to this crap. Not that Charlie has read it. She’s just read the MST3K versions and that one Tumblr that analyzes just how bad it is, piece by piece.

But forget all of that. Weren’t they just an inch away from each other? They were supposed to kiss or something. If not have dirty hate sex up against Bobby’s refrigerator. It was practically begging to happen…

Wait a second. Is she _disappointed_? She could barely stand the thought a minute ago, but now that it didn’t happen, she wants…

She wants…

“Oh, shit,” she says, throwing up her hands. “I _ship_ it!”


	22. Charlie Reads Carver: In the Beginning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charlie reads on...

Charlie’s not the shipping sort. That is, she can kind of live with Ginny and Harry, and she digs Eowyn and Faramir, but she blames both of them on her affinity for red-haired characters getting it on. It’s hard not to sympathize there. But she’s not the kind of girl who throws on her shipping goggles and tries to find life mates for every character in every book she reads. And she sure as hell isn’t a slasher by trade. Not that there’s anything wrong with slashing, mind you. She just doesn’t much buy a lot of it, personally. (Except for Xena and Gabrielle, and Buffy and Faith, and HG and Myka, but that’s … oh, forget it.)

So this sudden discovery that she ships Dean and Castiel is unsettling. For many reasons. For one thing, she actually _knows_ Dean. And she totally buys his straightness, or at least his general preference for women. For another, as much as that last scene in the previous book was reeking with sexual tension, she still doesn’t much like Castiel as a character. Dean’s right, he’s a dick. Cool entrance notwithstanding, he’s not the most sympathetic character, leaving Dean there to deal with the witnesses and then telling him off.

Not to mention the whole watching-him- _sleep_ thing. That skeeves her out. And then, she starts the next book, and he’s doing the _exact same thing._

Eyurgh.

_“What were you dreaming about?”_

“Oh,God.” She’s back to reading from between her fingers. “Stop Twilighting him, you creeper.”

At least Dean calls him on it again. Go, Dean. Charlie _knew_ he was super-cool, and not just because he was willing to wear chain mail and a wig. She’s starting to hope Dean will tell this guy where to get off. She just hopes it’s not where she’s hoping (despite herself) he might end up getting off, so to speak.

No, seriously, screw them and their painfully obvious sexual tension.  
 It’s compromising her principles.

Luckily enough, the story takes a cool turn when Castiel whammies Dean into the past. If all this is true, she’s gonna have a ton of questions for Dean about the whole experience. Being in the 70s. How cool is that? And as bad as Carver Edlund’s writing is, she really digs the description of the cars and the haircuts. And the suits. Oh, God, such awful suits.  
  
And then everything is squee because Dean’s talking to his own dad, and he’s arranging for his dad to buy his car. The first time Charlie met the boys they didn’t have the car, but after the Moondoor event, she got a glimpse at it and it is _hawwesome_. So reading that whole sequence is pretty squee-inducing.  
  
 _“Mom is a babe,” Dean muttered. Then, shaking his head, he added, “I’m going to hell. Again.”_  
  
“Oh, God, Dean!” Charlie considers throwing something at the screen, but it’d just bounce off and hit her in the face. “Yes, you are!”  
  
But she doesn’t have much to say after that. Because then it turns out Dean’s mom was a hunter (and Charlie may just fist-pump a bit at that), and her family was a hunting family, and then that asshat of a yellow-eyed demon is involved, and she’s tearing up really hard when Mary makes the deal over John’s broken body.  
  
And it makes her think about destiny, and causality loops, and the sort of thing that Doctor Who plays with in terms of fixed points in time. It always had to happen, didn’t it? Their mom dying, the two of them becoming hunters. She wonders how much of her own life had to happen. Was she always destined to grow up with a mom who couldn’t hold her, who couldn’t open her eyes to tell her that she was loved? Even if she had a time-traveling angel on her side, was Charlie always going to end up alone?  
  
She’s blinking away tears when Castiel reappears.  
  
 _Dean felt a warmth on his shoulder. He turned._  
  
 _Castiel was standing there, his fingers stretched over Dean’s shoulder in a firm grip. When their gazes met, the sympathy in Castiel’s eyes, the sadness there, made Dean catch his breath. Was it possible this angel, this hardened soldier of Heaven, actually felt bad for him and his family? Was it possible that there was something in there that wished it didn’t have to be that way? And Dean felt for an instant a bolt of connection, as though Castiel was the only one in the world who could possibly understand what he was feeling right now. Even though he was the one who engineered it. He leaned into the touch._  
  
“Oh, stop it,” Charlie mutters, but she’s too choked up herself to be too pissed at the two of them for their silent flirting.  
  
If this is Castiel, the real Castiel, maybe she can get over the idea that he doesn’t know how to act like anything but a complete jerk. Who knows, maybe it’s just how angels tend to behave. They haven’t had a lot of practice talking to people, apparently  
  
But then they’re back in the present, and Castiel’s saying things about the immutability of destiny, and babbling about Sam, and Charlie just wants to bang her head against the keyboard again. Why does he have to be such a complete dickhead?


	23. Charlie Reads Carver: It’s the Great Pumpkin, Sammy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What it says on the tin.

Sam and Dean have had to put up with a lot of crap. Death, their dad’s training, hunting, monsters, demons, you name it. But nothing matches this indignity. Nobody should have to put up with this kind of insult. Charlie’s heart bleeds for them.  
  
 _Dean raised his fist and shouted to the sky._  
  
So does Charlie, albeit just to her e-reader.  
  
 _“ASTRONAUT!”_  
  
  
  
A few minutes ago in the story, Sam finally met Castiel. It went pretty much the way Charlie expected it to go, with Sam being a bit fangirly and then ultimately disappointed at the lack of fluffy wings and caring at all about the human race. A few books sans Castiel has cured her of her enchantment with the dynamic between him and Dean. She must have imagined it. Maybe the writer just doesn’t know how to write their relationship well. All that gazing into each other’s eyes could have been just awkward silence, jazzed up for the purpose of gaining readers. He would not be the first author to throw that kind of bait out there.  
  
In the meantime, Charlie’s concerns have gone to other places. For one, whatever Dean’s hiding about Hell. It’s obvious now he does remember it. And what he’s hiding scares her as much or more than what Sam’s hiding, if only because in Sam’s case, she knows what it is. She hopes he’s not going to end up breaking down. At least, not too hard. At least she has the comfort of the real-life Dean to let her know said breakdown, should it happen, won’t be permanent.  
  
And then there’s Uriel. Who is kind of badass, if you put the emphasis on the “ass” part. And whom Charlie would really like as a character, in a Bellatrix Lestrange kind of way, if she didn’t have the sneaking suspicion he’s not just a character. This is the whole problem with these books. She wants to react to them like she reacts to fiction, and she can’t, quite, because she suspects they’re not. It’s a weird, weird experience.  
  
Now Charlie finds herself surprised again: here’s a scene from Castiel’s point of view. Carver Edlund very rarely deviates from Sam and Dean’s POV, although he has occasionally given a behind-the-scenes peek at, say, Meg’s phone call home or Bela’s deal to sell the Colt. Oh, and the stupid way he starts every stupid book with the stupid genre-blind victims-of-the-day wandering stupidly to their own doom. Again, this is the problem with reading these books. She wants to scream at them to not go into the empty farmhouse or make out deep in the woods, but if they’re real people, there’s no reason they should be genre-savvy. She’s at an unfortunate advantage.  
  
 _“We blow this insignificant pinprick off the map,” Uriel said. His face was full of rage. Not the sort of rage Castiel was used to seeing from him – no, this was not righteous rage, the fury of heaven unleashed, which is why Castiel brought Uriel to this town to begin with. This rage was different, and it scared Castiel._  
  
It scared Castiel? Castiel got scared? Mr. “I can throw you back in” gets scared? This is a new wrinkle. Charlie reaches for her chai and takes a sip. She’s going to need some more caffeine to process this.  
  
 _“You know our true orders,” Castiel replied. He held his face steady, hoping that Uriel would not see the ineffable doubts that had begun to plague his mind. Such things were better kept inside. “Are you prepared to disobey?”_  
  
“Yes,” Charlie chants, “yes, disobey.” But it isn’t Uriel she’s rooting for. Doubt, yes, doubt! That’s great news. Every great robot story since Asimov has featured a robot rebelling against its programming, and she’s starting to wonder if that’s what she’s about to see. Castiel is suddenly that much more interesting and sympathetic as a character.  
  
As a real-life not-human, though? She’s still unsure.  
  
And she’s even less sure about Sam – even though she knows him, knows he’s okay – because the thing he does to that creature in that crypt scares the bejesus out of Dean and it scares the bejesus out of Charlie too, or at least the bejeebus, and her agnosticism is getting a little bit compromised with all these angels running around with people she actually knows.  
  
She should really stop reading these books. She should just ask Sam and Dean what happened and not look at it through the prism of this hyperbolic sellout of a writer just looking to sell books on the backs of her friends.  
  
(Yeah, so she’s already bought all the rest in the series.)  
  
Do Sam and Dean even know about these books? she wonders suddenly. They must. They’ve got to. Then again, everyone else in these stories is completely genre-blind. Maybe they have no idea. Maybe none of it’s true. Maybe someone was saved by Sam and Dean and decided to start writing stories about the magical brothers who save the world from evil.  
  
It’s just … the voices, when they come through … what she knows of them and the way they think and the way they talk … it’s frakking uncanny. It has to be real.   
  
And then she reads the scene in the park. The last scene in the book.  
  
 _“It was a witch,” Dean said, “not the Tet Offensive.”_  
  
 _Castiel smiled. A small smile, but it was there, and unmistakeable. Dean’s heart skipped a beat._  
  
“Oh, stop it!” Charlie has to use all her self-control not to slam her head against her tablet in frustration. “Dean’s heart does not skip beats. For crap’s sake!”  
  
Skipped a beat. Skipped a _beat_. Bull. Dean’s heart doesn’t even stutter.  
  
Except maybe. Maybe for this guy, for this angel, it does.  
  
 _“Can I tell you something if you promise not to tell another soul?”_  
  
Oh, great, and now they’re confiding in each other. This is not helping.  
  
 _“I have questions. I have doubts.” The words sank into Dean’s skin. Something was moving in him, something significant, and it had everything to do with Castiel. Dean didn’t know what to make of it. Why was he feeling this way, and why should he even stop to think about it? But when Castiel turned to him and said “I don’t envy the weight that’s on your shoulders, Dean, I truly don’t,” Dean found himself staring into the angel’s eyes, unable for the moment to look away. Again, that sense that Castiel understood, that he perhaps was more like Dean than Dean yet realized, overwhelmed him. And that sense that the two of them shared more than a few late-night conversations and parkside chats persisted. Dean didn’t want to be anything like this creature. He didn’t want to be the hammer. But neither did Castiel, he’d just said so, and in the end were they really all that different?_  
  
 _Dean forced his gaze away. He couldn’t stand to ponder it another moment. And yet…_  
  
 _He looked back, turning his focus away from the children playing and the pristine serenity of the park. He was alone. Castiel was gone._  
  
Oh, screw everything. Charlie turns over and buries her head in her pillow. This isn’t her fault. She can’t help it. The author is shipping it. The author is the one making the overly grandiose parallels between the two of them. “Sharing more”? “Something moving within him”? How was that not written as a deliberate tease?  
  
Never mind the problem she has with the stupid “And yet” and the stupid ellipses. This writer is freaking baiting her, and she doesn’t like it one bit.  
  
Mostly because she’s taken the bait immediately and is now wriggling like a fish on a hook, craving more.  
  
The next one is called “Wishful Thinking.” She spends the whole book waiting for Castiel to show up, and he never does.  
  
God damn fiction all to hell. It had always has this effect on her. Even now that she isn’t sure that it’s fiction at all.


	24. Charlie Reads Carver: Heaven and Hell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean's revelation has an effect on Charlie.

So now Charlie knows what Sammy did last summer. And she kind of wishes she didn’t… at least, not in so much detail.   
  
_Sam growled into her mouth and pulled her shirt over her head. His hands splayed out along her back and then reached up to tug into her hair…_  
  
It would have been a lot easier to take if the author hadn’t resorted to “ _their tongues battled_.” Charlie’s had a few kisses, some of them more violent and primal than others, but she’s never had a tongue battle before, and she doesn’t really think it’s a thing that happens. And if it is, she doesn’t think it sounds pleasant.  
  
And now, a chapter into the new book, and Castiel’s responded in the affirmative to Dean’s calling him a heartless son of a bitch, and demanding that the poor girl Anna has to die, and what happened to the whole scene in the park and Castiel being so almost-nice? This whole thing is not pleasing.  
  
At least Pamela shows up again shortly thereafter. Charlie’s really digging Pamela. She will have to make a note to get Dean and Sam to introduce her. If she’s still around.   
  
God, that’s a depressing caveat to have to add to everything involving the Winchesters.  
  
  
  
Oh. Okay. So Anna’s an angel. Charlie has to suppress a little war whoop when Dean asks if Castiel and Uriel were her bosses, and Anna answers “ _The other way around_.” Heck yeah, girl power. Double heck yeah redhead power. Charlie’s wondering if she can have a spinoff series that is the adventures of Pamela and Anna. Maybe they can grab the girl Jo from the roadhouse and go on adventures. It would be epic.  
  
Sadly, no. And sadly, too, Anna ends up in the back of the Impala with Dean. So much for the epic potential of Pamela/Anna. Charlie had already been dreaming up a fic where Anna got her grace back and restored Pamela’s sight, and Pamela stuttered “Oh, my God, you’re… you’re beautiful…” and Anna says “I promise to never show you what I really look like,” and Pamela laughs, and they kiss and fall down on the bed in Bobby’s panic room.  
  
And there would be no battling tongues.  
  
Oh well, heteronormative story is heteronormative, Charlie sighs, and reads on.  
  
 _Anna moaned and arched. Her hand sealed over Dean’s shoulder, molding to the handprint where another angel had touched him not so long ago._  
  
Charlie tries to suppress her urge to throw her e-reader across the room and makes do with an eyeroll. She doesn’t know why this grosses her out so much, since she’s not shipping Dean and Castiel so hard anymore, mostly because Castiel’s being a dick. But still, it seems like… sacred territory or something. Like Anna ought to keep off the grass.  
  
 _“Castiel?” Uriel says. “He’s not here. See, he has this weakness.”_  
  
“Yeah, it’s Dean,” Charlie says before she can stop it. Crap, she thought she wasn’t shipping it anymore.   
  
_“He likes you.”_  
  
And Charlie nearly bashes her own head against the screen. Great. This dickweed angel obviously ships it, too. At least she’s not the only one.  
  
 _Anna kissed Dean softly on the lips. Castiel watched, no small amount of sorrow in his gaze._  
  
And how is Charlie supposed to read that without getting jealousy vibes? Unless Cas and Anna are supposed to be a thing, which doesn’t ring true. There’s such a thing as chemistry, and certain couples have it and other couples don’t.   
  
But all thoughts of ships and couples and chemistry fly right out the window at the end of this book.  
  
 _“It was four months up here,” Dean said slowly, “but down there… I don’t know. Time’s different. It was more like 40 years.”_  
  
“Holy frak,” Charlie says, cupping a hand over her mouth. Suddenly she can’t think of this as just an interesting story anymore. She’d let herself fall into that trap over the past few books, what with the wishing well and the gratuitous sex scenes. But this… what Dean’s talking about here… it’s more than she can handle.  
  
She reads it slowly, drinking in every word, and halfway through she finds her eyes are too watery to make out the letters. Sniffling, wiping her eyes with the back of her arm, Charlie forces herself to read on. Because this… this explains so much about how Dean, the real Dean, is, why he is so laden with guilt, why she has looked at him sometimes and seen a man carrying the weight of a thousand worlds on his shoulders. This must be real. This must have happened. She’s seen it written on his face long before she read it here.  
  
 _Dean tried to blink away the tears, but they got by him, streaking their way down his face.He could feel his brother looking at him, the emptiness of the road ahead, the weight of all his sins, and he thought he might collapse beneath the pressure of them all. How could he be alive? How could he have possibly been worth saving, and why did he now have to live, knowing what he’d become?_  
  
 _He wished he didn’t have to ask. And he wished he’d stayed dead. But most of all…_  
  
 _“I wish I couldn’t feel anything, Sammy,” Dean said, more tears running down his cheeks. “I wish I couldn’t feel a damn thing.”_  
  
“Oh, my God,” Charlie whispers. “Me, too.”  
  
She drops her e-reader, puts her head in her hands, and cries.


	25. Another quick TV Tropes fic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked you: I know this was a while ago, but if you do Destiel/Now Or Never Kiss, I will love you forever and ever… (not that I don’t already)

_(for the[TVTropes meme](http://tiptoe39.tumblr.com/post/50730008452/oh-im-on-the-clock-today-doing-boring-work-the))_

A year ago, having Castiel with him in this situation would be awesome. Right now, it’s just harrowing.  
  
The gates of hell are so far from closed it’s an embarrassment. They’re on the march, demons, thousands of them, like something out of a Lord of the Rings movie, all borrowed bodies and black smoke. Dean’s drawn all the devil’s traps his wrist will let him draw, has piled the salt in multiple rings around the bunker where he’s hiding. But demons in numbers like these can force winds to blow, dispelling salt circles, and they can force the earth to crack, breaking the painted circles that are supposed to hold them back. And slowly they’re closing in on Dean and Castiel, as Sam desperately works a spell in the background, trying to protect this house from the incursion and force the demons back. But Cas is no angel, not anymore, and if it comes to hand-to-hand combat he’ll likely be hapless. He still can’t get used to a sneze; sparring is far beyond his capabilities. And Dean, well, he’s Dean, but that don’t mean much to a thousand demons.   
  
In a word, they’re screwed.

  
“Chant a little faster, Sammy,” Dean mumbles under his breath; he doesn’t dare actually say it loud enough for Sam to hear it. For one thing, Sam’d kill him, for another, the time it would take for Sam to look up and give him a peeved look is time that could be spent continuing to chant.  
  
“I don’t think he heard you,” Castiel says. Speaking of things Cas hasn’t gotten used to. The subtleties of sarcasm and asides still escape him.  
  
“He wasn’t supposed to.” Dean looks at Castiel. They’re pretty close together, brandishing twin shotguns packed with rock salt rounds. Castiel keeps looking down at his nervously.  
  
“What happens when we run out of rounds?” he asks. The demons rattle the windows and doors of the house where they’re camped out. They’ve gotten past the first ring of salt.  
  
Dean grimaces. “Nothing good.”  
  
He doesn’t really want to think of it. Of the fact that Castiel used “when” just now. As though he’s already calculated the time and knows Sam won’t be able to complete the spell before the demons break in. But now Castiel is human. Does he still have that processing power? Maybe he’s just being a pessimist. Dean wants to tell him something good, to rev up his fighting spirit, and he doesn’t know how. How in the hell do you cheer up an angel who no longer has his powers? If it were Dean, he’d be depressed as all hell.  
  
Something breaks downstairs. The room goes cold. Dean has an image of a downstairs full of black smoke. There are footsteps, too, and each one lands like a weight on Dean’s heart. This would be a really stupid way to go out. But what can he do? Sam has to cast the damn spell.   
  
“Dean,” Castiel says, “if we die here I want you to know–”  
  
A window blows open. Salt lines on the floor before them scatter.  
  
“Can it, okay?” Dean yells over the sudden howling gust of the wind. “We’re going out fighting, not talking.”  
  
Sam’s chants pick up in speed and volume. The door to the study where they’re holed up starts to dent, as though someone’s taking a battering ram to it.  
  
“But I only want to say,” Castiel starts, and then the breeze hits him hard in the face. He winces as though slapped.  
  
The door flies open.  
  
Sam throws a handful of something grainy into a silver platter. It sparks and catches fire, white flames that illuminate the room and everything in it.   
  
Dean looks over at Castiel, sees the white reflection of the flame in his eyes. It reminds him of when Cas was an angel.  
  
Black smoke swirls at the entrance.  
  
Sam shouts a word in Latin.  
  
Dean grabs Castiel by the shoulder and yanks him forward. Castiel’s lips are solid and open as they collide with Dean’s.  
  
The room fills with blinding light.   
  
And then it dims again, and the demons are gone, everything’s gone, the room is quiet, Sam is slumping back onto a chair and groaning, and Dean has Castiel by one arm and is kissing him hard.  
  
It takes everyone a minute to realize they’re not dead, then jump back in shock.  
  
“Holy,” Sam says, and claps a hand over his mouth.  
  
Dean comes to a moment later, jumping back nearly a foot and stammering “I– what– that didn’t–”  
  
And Castiel just stands there, mouth sinfully wet and red, curled into an O of surprise, his eyes wide.  
  
“Uh.” Dean looks from Castiel to Sam and back again. “So the spell worked. Awesome. Great job, Sammy.”  
  
“Dean?” Castiel says, stepping forward. Dean goes back another step.  
  
Sam starts to snigger. Dean levels a dirty look at him.  
  
“I was about to die,” he growls. “It doesn’t count.”  
  
“It doesn’t…?” Castiel looks… shit, does he look _disappointed_?  
  
“ _Sure_ it doesn’t,” Sam says through a sputter of laughter.  
  
And now Dean can’t say it does, or Sam will laugh, and he can’t say it doesn’t, because he can’t stand that look on Castiel’s face. Wouldn’t you know it, demons or no, he’s screwed again.  
  
He puts his fingers to his lips, feels the borrowed warmth still lingering there, and tries really hard not to smile.


	26. Stars falling all around them

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Set just after the Season 8 finale.

Stars falling all around them and Dean doesn’t want to let go of Sam for a minute, but his phone is buzzing in his pocket and he just knows, somehow, he’s got to answer it. That low down bunched up feeling in the pit of his stomach says so, knows who it is before he even slides it out.

_Dean._

That’s what it’ll be, before he even says hello. Cas’s voice, low and weak, like gravel seeping into his ear.

He’s saying “Cas” as he lifts the phone after punching “Answer” and Cas _still_ manages to say his name first.

“Dean, I’m–”

“Cas, is that you?” Dean looks up, sees the sky still full of orange flames. “I mean– up there, it’s– it’s angels, isn’t it–”

“Dean, I don’t know where I am,” Cas says. “It’s dark and… and I’m at a gas station and I’m hungry–”

“You’re _what?_ ”

“–and I don’t know where I am, can you find me?”

Jesus, he could be _anywhere._ And if Dean feels lost just thinking about it, Cas must be a wreck, all alone and unable to fly up into the air to look at the earth below and pinpoint his own location or that of his friends in half a second the way he used to. Imagine that. Being an angel, and then all of a sudden, when there’s no lights on it’s dark, just like it is for humans.

“Is the gas station open? Cas, is anyone there with you?”

“No. It’s dark, Dean–”

“Then you need to keep moving. You need to find a place that’s open, you need to find out where you are and you need to call me back.” It’s hard and maybe cruel, but Dean can’t help him until he knows where he is to help, and right now he’s got Sam to worry about.

And holy crap, two minutes ago he was calling Cas’s name asking for help with Sam. Now Cas is calling him asking for help, and they’re all only human now, aren’t they?

There’s gonna be lots of times Dean can’t help. Lots of times Cas can’t help _him_ , either. His last resort is gone. It’s fallen from the sky in a bright streak of orange and now it’s just a hunk of rock, same as the rest of them. Dean’s heart sinks. What are any of them gonna do now?

“I’ll… I’ll keep moving,” Cas says, but he sounds like he’s about to pass out, and Dean’s damn worried. How hungry is he, how weak, after not taking care of that body for God knows how long? What if he passes out in the middle of the road, lies there until someone whose reflexes aren’t as good as Dean’s can’t stop their car in time?

But there’s nothing he can do. God help him, there is not a thing he can do.

He never thought Cas being helpless would make _him_ feel so helpless.

“Cas,” he says, but the line is dead. Cas is gone. And the sky is starting to darken, which means there’s no angels left in heaven for him to pray to that Cas doesn’t get himself killed out there.

Thank God Sam’s breathing has evened out, thank God he doesn’t look like he’s struggling as hard to stay sitting up anymore. When Dean helps him up and into the car, he can make the last few inches by himself. Small favors. Even if there’s nobody left above, Dean still thanks God… or whoever… for that.

And he starts thinking maybe there’s still a God left to thank when he drives out of the lot onto the highway and sees a figure by the side of the road, making his slow way to somewhere one human step at a time.


	27. Telepath!Dean

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I got a little interested in the idea of Dean developing superpowers.

So Dean and Sam find Castiel by the highway and take him in and Dean’s hustling the two of them back to the Men of Letters HQ when he hears Castiel say something he didn’t say. That is, Dean looks at Cas and says “I don’t think that’s true,” and Castiel says, startled, “I didn’t say anything.”

“Sure you did,” Dean says. “You were talking about how you felt like the angels falling was your fault.”

“I didn’t say that out loud,” Castiel says, “did I?”

“I don’t know. I heard it.”

Dean doesn’t think much of that, because they’re all tired and feeling like crap and it’s that kind of night, the one where things just spill out of you without your meaning to say it. But he does mind when he’s woken up the next morning by Cas’s voice.

_He’s sleeping  I shouldn’t watch him. He’s still sleeping. I’ll wake him up._ _I should go._

“What the hell… Cas?” Dean blinks.

“I’m sorry, I should–”

“Be quiet in the morning, yeah, you’re damn right you should.”

“Dean?” Cas does that head-tilty thing that makes Dean feel off balance on his best day. So Dean groans and tries to turn over and go back to sleep.

_What does he mean by be quiet? I’m sure that time I said nothing…_

And Dean throws off the covers again and scowls at him. “I said, quiet!” he says. “You’re gonna wake Sam up.”

“I didn’t say a word,” Castiel says. His brow knots in confusion.

And now Dean’s freaking out, because Castiel’s looking at him with his mouth a tight line, and _still_ Dean’s hearing him talk, a constant stream of _what is this, is it possible I have still maintained some ability to communicate telepathically, perhaps my Grace isn’t completely depleted after all, but I’m not making an effort, so–_

And from the next room Dean hears, clear as a bell, in Sam’s voice,

_Boobs._

Yeah, now he’s well and truly freaked out.

* * *

Next thing you know they’re sitting around that map table, which fell dark again as soon as the angels stopped falling (around 2 a.m. last night, it was a hell of an angel shower), and Dean’s got his hands over his ears and is scowling as he says, “You did, didn’t you? You were dreaming about somebody’s rack.”

Sam flushes and protests, “I was not. And I can’t help what I dream.”

“That is not of import,” Castiel says, and leans forward over the table. “Dean. Are you still listening to thoughts?”

Dean’s talking a little too loudly. “You’re damn right I am. And it’s like having two of each of you. God, do you have to think so damn much when you talk? Agh. And now there’s Kevin. No, we’re not planning a freaking war. Stop thinking we look like a war council.”

“Oh.” Kevin stops at the edge of the room. He’s just entered from the bedroom area of the bunker. “Sorry. Wait, how did you-?”

“We’re working on figuring that out,” Sam says with a glance up at Kevin. “Dean. Can you control it at all? Like, can you try to stop it?”

“I don’t even know what it is,” Dean complains, still a little too loud, as though he’s trying to talk over a crowd. “I can’t hear myself think. Actually, that’s probably a good thing. But you’re all thinking so _loud_.”

His head swims. All around him there’s nothing but noise, so much noise that there’s nothing else he can concentrate on but hearing them.  _What could have caused this – I’m tired, wish I could go back to bed – they’re so weird – Dean looks so peculiar like this, I wish I understood – got to stay awake to help Dean – why I feel like this – they still look like a freakin’ war council – when I look at him –_

“Augh!” Dean pushes through it all  “Sam, go the hell back to sleep if you go back to sleep. I know we’re freaking weird, Kevin, this ain’t news, especially not to you. And Cas–”

And he stops, because just then the voices stopped for a moment. Like a blink, but with sound. Also, because the things he heard Cas think don’t make much sense to him, but he can tell already they’re things he doesn’t want to repeat in front of anyone else. Least of all himself.


	28. Charlie Reads Carver: On the Head of a Pin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charlie reads one of the most upsetting of Carver Edlund's unpublished works.

Charlie’s still not over _Heaven and Hell_.  
  
She has to take a long walk after that book, to clear her head, to decide if she wants to keep reading. Fiction has crossed over into uncomfortably real territory, and she’s having trouble holding onto her own sanity. Every time she thinks about what Dean went through, she wants to break down and cry.   
  
She tries to shake it off, force herself to read. She doesn’t much want to. She’s seen Dean’s eyes, that sadness he always carries around with him, especially when he’s playing the bad boy without a care in the world. But at least the story is good, and she makes it through _Family Remains_ and _After School Special_ without bursting into tears again.  
  
No such luck when she gets to _Death Takes a Holiday._ Damn it, but she’d been rooting for Pamela. Crushing on her a little, too. And now she’s gone, and not only does Charlie shed a tear, but she shivers a little too. Death follows these guys around. She should be scared as hell of associating with them again. What was she thinking, inviting them back to the Moondoor Jubilee? With the luck they have, they’ll bring all manner of bad things along.  
  
But as she sits down to start _On the Head of a Pin,_ all of that falls away. Because this book is doing something different.  
  
This book is from Castiel’s point of view.  
  


_Castiel walked among the debris._  
  
What is with this author and one-sentence opening paragraphs?  Oh, well.  
  
 _Castiel walked among the debris._  
  
 _The fight here had been intense; he could tell by the shattered beams and broken electrical wires that sparked as he walked by, then fell dead in his wake. But, fierce as it was, that battle had ended, and it had ended with the death of the angel lying in the dirt, among the rubble._  
  
 _She was beautiful, even in death – her blonde hair spread out around her like a fan, and the white dress she wore was unstained, even after the battle that had ensued. The only evidence she was more than simply sleeping was the charcoal-gray imprint of her burned-out wings, spreading in a wide arc to either side of her shoulders._  
  
 _Castiel kneeled and felt her pulse, then took her limp hand in his. “Goodbye, sister,” he murmured reverently._  
  
 _This changed things. The more angels died, the more important it became to track down the creature who was killing them. And at last, they had a trump card in their pocket to discover the truth. But they needed one more ace in their hand. Castiel sighed. He didn’t want it to come to this, but it had to be done._  
  
 _They needed Dean._  
  
A stone of dread settles deep in Charlie’s stomach. If Castiel doesn’t want it to come to this, then what they need Dean for can’t be any good.   
  
“I don’t want to read this,” she says, putting her hands on her face and peeking between them like a child afraid of a scary movie. “I don’t want to read this, I don’t want to read this.”  
  
But she keeps reading, through her fingers for a while, as Uriel and Castiel capture Dean and explain exactly what they want from him. When Charlie realizes what they’re after, she moans and closes her eyes.  
  
This happened. This all happened. That’s the part she can’t get over. She’s not reading a story now, she’s catching up on her – well, she supposes they’re friends, even if she’s sort of befriended them in absentia after one LARP event. And she’s freaking addicted to their story now, despite the fact that it keeps punching her in the gut. For some reason she just can’t stop.   
  
_“You ask me to open that door and walk through it,” Dean said, “you will not like who walks back out.”_  
  
 _Castiel gazed at Dean in the dimness. He wished there was some way to explain to him the stakes, to make it clear how desperate their situation was and how very necessary their gambit was, given the cirucmstances. But there was no way, and, as much as Castiel wanted to believe otherwise, he was starting to believe that maybe he couldn’t justify it to Dean because it was not justifiable after all._  
  
 _“For what it’s worth,” he said, his voice aching, “I would give anything not to have you do this.”_  
  
Charlie isn’t sure how a voice aches, but other than that, she doesn’t have many qualms about the writing for once. It’s as though Castiel’s thoughts are just as awkward and stilted as the writing usually is, so it’s a perfect match. And she wonders again how this author knows what he knows, including going into the heads of Sam, Dean and now Castiel. It’s not like Dean’s writing this himself. Sam she might believe, but she doesn’t think either of them would want their life stories on the Internet. Who is this Carver Edlund, anyway?   
  
A Google search reveals a skinny guy in a beard who doesn’t look like he could survive a day of Dean and Sam’s life. Charlie’s well and truly mystified. She reads on.  
  
The story shifts to Dean’s POV, then Sam’s, and the story unfolds.The scenes with Dean and Alistair break her heart, but she manages to keep reading without recoiling or feeling ill until she gets to a scene with Sam and Ruby that she will forever think of as  _that_ scene.  
  
 _Sam watched in hungry anticipation as Ruby pulled a knife from a sheath at her ankle. The blade gleamed as it ran over her skin, and a moment later, it was welling up in all its glory – the nectar Sam had been craving ever since the last time he’d had a drink. It was his wine, and he was a hopeless addict._  
  
 _He crawled atop her and suckled her blood like a baby seeking its mother’s milk._  
  
There have been so many times Charlie has wanted to throw her e-reader across the room, but this takes the cake. “Demon blood, Sam?” she shouts. “Really?” She loves Sam, honestly she does, but really, that boy makes the worst decisions. Especially where women are involved. Damn, but Charlie wishes he would just stop letting the wrong ones in. Someone needs to stage an intervention.  
  
But that’s genre blindness for you, and Charlie reminds herself that this isn’t just some well-crafted (if inartfully written) horror story. This is real life, and these are real people, and real people don’t worry about genre blindness because as far as they know, they’re not in a genre. Sam was blinded by grief and a sense of helpless frustration, and Ruby offered him a way to take control. How many people self-medicate because it’s the only way they know to get their demons under control? Charlie’s known a few in her lifetime. She sighs and buries herself under her covers (it’s late now, she’s reading in bed). The e-reader’s light casts a blue glow on the blankets above her.  
  
 _As Castiel waited by the streetlight, he ran over it all again in his mind, trying to find a flaw in his own logic, trying to find a reason not to be there. It all began and ended with Dean. Dean, with his stubborn self-righteousness. Dean, with his clear knowledge of right and wrong, with the line he hadn’t wanted to cross. And Castiel, who had forced him to cross it… and had ended up no closer to his objective than when he started. They still didn’t know who was killing the angels, and Dean was stuck in a hospital bed._  
  
 _Sam’s words from earlier stung him. “This whole thing was pointless,” he’d said. And maybe it was. Maybe Dean was right and Castiel was wrong all along._  
  
 _Maybe Dean had always been right. Maybe it had been Dean’s rightness that had taken Castiel’s feelings and twisted them into this mess. And yet, when Castiel thought of Dean, all he could see was a good man, a man who loved so fiercely he came back from the brink of being a monster and didn’t want to step over that line again._  
  
 _Castiel had forced him. And Castiel had landed him in the hospital._  
  
 _The existence of Dean tore at his heart, and when Anna arrived, and asked what he wanted, Castiel could think of no other words to say but the truth._  
  
 _“I’m considering disobedience,” he said._  
  
It isn’t a matter of shipping anymore. Charlie knows that feeling, the feeling when someone makes you question the whole of who you were and guide you toward a better path. Someone who challenges you, who makes you want to be on the right side of things. She’s felt it before. Anna was right in identifying Castiel’s emotion as doubt before. But there’s another emotion there, one that Castiel himself doesn’t yet know to name.  
  
It’s called love.  
  
There’s no longer a doubt in Charlie’s mind that Castiel loves Dean, and it doesn’t much matter in which way or what it entails. Love is love, and you can see it in every interaction he has, everything he suffers. This look into Castiel’s head has lit it up like a candle in a dark room, and Charlie knows it.  
  
The question is, does Dean know that Castiel loves him? Does he care? Does he feel the same way?  
  
Given the Dean she knows, and  the way he openly appreciates women, Charlie’s going to guess that the feelings either aren’t requited or aren’t admitted to. Which makes her sad. Because this book, if anything, has gotten her to like Castiel in a way that can’t be easily undone. No more of the hemming and hawing back and forth, thinking maybe he’s a jerk, maybe he’s a cold, heartless angel who doesn’t care who has to die to accomplish his objective.  This book has put those worries to rest. Castiel cares. And no matter what bad decisions he makes, you can’t erase the caring.  
  
Castiel’s kind of like Sam in that way, she figures.  
  
So yeah, that’s her professional literary analysis. Unrequited love of some sort or other, doesn’t have to be romantic, doesn’t need a label. But it’s love and it’s there, and Charlie aches a little for Castiel that it’s not answered.  
  
 _“I can’t do it, Cas,” Dean said, his voice croaking. “It’s too big. Alastair was right. I’m not all here. I’m not—-I’m not strong enough.”_  
  
 _The ache in his voice grew. “I guess I’m not the man either of our dads wanted me to be.” And there, under the harsh hospital lights and with Castiel sitting beside him, he shed a tear. Without looking, Castiel could feel the force of it, how it ran down his cheek, luminescent in the brightness, and disappeared under his chin._  
  
 _“Find someone else. It’s not me.”_  
  
 _Castiel couldn’t answer. He let Dean cry, and he stayed by his side until he’d fallen asleep again._  
  
 _THE END_  
  
  
Well, shit. Maybe she jumped to conclusions earlier.  
  
Forget the aching voice again. (Charlie’s throat is starting to hurt from that turn of phrase.) Dean doesn’t cry in front of very many people. Charlie could count the tears he’s shed in these books on the fingers of one hand – on his own, at their dad’s death – watching Sam go into the room to kill Madison – as he explained to Sam just what went on in Hell. But he cries here, in front of Castiel. And maybe it’s just because he’s injured, and weak, but that doesn’t seem like Dean at all.   
  
She can’t really begin to piece it together, but the hint is there. Maybe, maybe, Dean cares about Castiel too. Enough to let his long-held guard down in front of him. Maybe he senses the depth of Castiel’s caring even more than he knows he does.  
  
Maybe this unrequited love isn’t so unrequited after all.   
  
And now Charlie has hopes. And given the Dean she knows, they’re not hopes that will be anything close to realized.  
  
Damn. This wasn’t supposed to be about shipping. But if it’s about a friend of hers, wanting him to be happy…   
  
… well, isn’t that really what shipping is all about ? Wanting happiness for a friend?  
  
Either way, she hopes they will find themselves on the same side of the equation soon. Having them at odds like this is killing her.  
  
On to the next book.  
  
Which starts with Dean in a pinstriped suit and driving a Prius, and his last name is suddenly Smith, and Charlie’s confused enough to drop it for now.


	29. Charlie Reads Carver: The Monster at the End of This Book

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy reading about reading about a book about reading about a book about your life.

“Excuse you.”  
  
Charlie glares at her e-reader. She re-reads the line.  
  
“Excuse you _very much_.”  
  
She wonders if the e-reader would survive her head being knocked against it. That seems the best way to alter what she’s reading at this point, or at least alter her understanding of it so it doesn’t offend _quite_ so much.  
  
“Excuse you,” she says a third time to her screen, “but _that_ is NOT LARPing!”  
  
Charlie knows from LARPing. She’s the Queen of Moondoor, and that also makes her a GM of the game. GM meaning game master, which means she helps run the thing, which means she deals with the permitting, the game requirements, orienting new players, dealing with injuries when they happen, adjudicating out-of-character drama, et cetera et cetera ad nauseam.   
  
It is not something you just jump off the street and do in a random comic book store. LARPing is done with other LARPers, at a designated time and place and with the full permission of the county park authority or whoever you need to get permission from in order to run your game. What Sam and Dean are doing can reasonably be termed as really heavy cosplay, perhaps, but it ain’t LARPing.  
  
Actually, given that it’s actually Sam and Dean, it’s just investigating.  
  
But Charlie’s head has not yet begun to spin. It’s not three sentences after the dumbass comic book shop guy assumes Sam and Dean are LARPing – which they are very much NOT doing – that he pulls a book off the shelf as evidence and Charlie finds herself in a pretzel of self-referential writing.  
  
SUPERNATURAL, by Carver Edlund.  
  
  
Charlie minimizes the e-reader on her tablet and goes to the website where she first found this series of books. Yup, that’s the same series she’s reading now, by the same author, who’s apparently written himself into Sam and Dean’s life, or Sam and Dean have come into his life, or something very wonky that makes it a little difficult to understand. The lines of fiction and non-fiction here have been blurred long enough; now she’s reading a book about the books she’s reading, and that is just really mind-bending.  
  
“OK,” she says aloud, “OK, so they find the books that are about them, but WHY ARE THERE BOOKS ABOUT THEM!?”  
  
This is the question that’s been plaguing her from the beginning. If she knows Sam and Dean half as well as she thinks she does, she knows they wouldn’t take too kindly to someone chronicling their exploits. And from said chronicles, and what she knows of the way they operate, it’d take someone pretty damn close to them to know all this stuff, and they don’t let anyone that close to them. So who is doing the chronicling, and how? Who in the hell is this Carver Edlund?  
  
She really doesn’t expect the answer to be a skinny, bearded drunk who walks around all day in his undershirt and boxers, but that’s the answer she gets.   
  
“For God’s sake,” she says, “romanticize yourself a little.” If she were writing these stories she knows she’d go on at length about her own flowing red locks and saucy smile, not to mention the killer bod and the truly excellent sense of humor. Then again, maybe that makes it a good thing she’s not writing these stories.  
  
 _“Obviously I’m a god,” Chuck said mournfully._  
 _Sam and Dean glanced at each other. “You’re not a god,” Sam started._  
 _“I’m definitely a god. A cruel, cruel, capricious god,” declared Chuck. “The things I put you through!”_  
  
God, huh? Charlie has trouble believing that. For one thing, angels or no angels, she’s sticking with agnosticism for now. Cause if the angels are gonna be the way they are in these books, she doesn’t much want to believe that their daddy’s around. Guy must be a sunovabitch.  
  
 _“Chuck, you’re not a god,” Dean said._  
 _Sam intoned, “We think you’re probably just psychic.”_  
  
That makes a lot more sense. A psychic. Charlie should have thought of it before. So there’s some psychic out there who’s keeping tabs, on purpose or by accident, on Sam and Dean. And writing about it. The thought makes her furious. She’s never had a psychic vision, but she’s pretty sure that if she had one, she’d know the difference between it and a fleeting inspiration. Those, she’s had. Mostly about Hermione. Or Starbuck. Speaking of which, how cool would these books be in space? Or Sam and Dean at Hogwarts. That would be amazing. Sam and Dean would be a pretty awesome team of Beaters…  
  
Charlie bonks herself on the head with the flat of her palm. “No, Charlie. Bad Charlie. No RPF. And certainly no RPF crossovers. _Geez.”_  
  
So back to business. There’s a psychic who’s writing books about Sam and Dean. And Sam and Dean know about him, because they’ve met him. And they’re okay with this? No, they can’t be. And yet here Charlie is, continuing to read, even though they’ve already said that at this point in the story, “No Rest for the Wicked” was the last book. Which means Sam and Dean let the guy go on writing.  
  
Or he just can’t help himself. Poor sucker. He could have at least sugarcoated things a little bit, to make the stories less depressing.   
  
Unless he already has.   
  
The thought makes Charlie’s stomach turn. She takes a deep breath and reads on.  
  
She has to giggle at the recursion, and is dreadfully sorry she’s not in a laundromat as she reads about Dean sitting in a laundromat reading about himself sitting in a laundromat, but the stuff with Sam and Lilith worries her. A lot. As the brothers continue to fight fate, and continue to lose, her amusement fades to concern. She’s been reading about this battle with Lilith for a long time, and the only times Lilith has actually shown up, disaster has followed. Not to mention that she doesn’t quite trust Sam to keep it in his pants when she does show up, given what Chuck’s predicted and what she’s read so far. She gets the whole lack of a mother figure and needing to feel in control Freud psychobabble that’s clearly behind Sam’s women choices, but he needs to take a vow of celibacy, stat. For the world’s sake.   
  
She has half a mind to search ahead in the text for the words “fiery demonic passion,” just to see if Chuck had the good sense to edit them out before he put this story online, but she restrains herself.  
  
Which is good, because if she skipped ahead, she totally would have missed Castiel.  
  
 _“He’s a prophet of the Lord,” Castiel said._  
  
This series needs to stop making Charlie want to bang her head against things. A prophet? Seriously?  
  
 _“Whoa, whoa,” Dean said,  holding out a hand. “What, this guy, a prophet?”_

“I know, right?” Charlie tells her e-reader.  
  
But the prophet thing turns out to be relevant. Hugely relevant. And the weirdest thing happens because of that.  
  
 _“You must understand why I can’t intercede,” Castiel said. His eyes  held Dean’s for a long moment, telegraphing some intent that Dean couldn’t yet decipher. “Prophets are very special. They’re protected.”_  
  
 _“I get that,” Dean said._  
  
 _Castiel pressed on. “If anything threatens a prophet, anything at all, an archangel will appear to destroy that threat.” His voice lowered, and he pressed each word like the point of a knife into Dean’s consciousness. “Archangels are fierce. They’re absolute. They’re heaven’s most terrifying weapon.”_  
  
 _Dean’s eyes widened. Suddenly, he thought he understood. “And these archangels, they’re tied to prophets?”_  
  
 _“Yes.” Castiel’s eyes were still reaching out to him, asking him that unspoken question._  
  
 _This time, Dean knew the answer. “So if a prophet was in the same room as a demon…”_  
  
 _“Then the most fearsome wrath of heaven would rain down on that demon.”_  
  
 _Castiel looked up, as though afraid heaven might be listening in; he looked down at his own feet briefly, then met Dean’s eyes again. “Just so you understand,” he added, “why I can’t help.”_  
  
 _It was as human as Dean had ever seen him, furtive and worried, and Dean wanted, if just for an instant, to reach out and clasp his hand, pat him on the shoulder and say to him, “This was right. You did the right thing.”_  
  
 _Instead, he just said, “Thanks, Cas.”_  
  
 _Castiel nodded. “Good luck.”_  
  
And with that, the weirdest thing happens. Charlie decides she likes Castiel.  
  
Not just tolerates him. Not just thinks he’s probably going to end up a good guy in the end. All of that is true, too, but now Charlie cares. Now she’s invested in Castiel ending up on Dean and Sam’s side. He has to, because she cares about him. Not only about Dean and Sam, but him, too. As a… person, angel, whatever. As his own entity, making his own choices.   
  
All of a sudden this story is not just about Dean and Sam anymore. Sure, it’s mostly about them, but now there’s someone else in the mix who makes Charlie’s heart hurt when she thinks about him. It’s just that unlike Dean and Sam, she hasn’t actually met him before. Hell, she doesn’t even know for sure that he’s real.  
  
But she sure as hell hopes he’s real. And on the right side, and still around. Because she’d like to get to know him, maybe have a drink together, if angels drink.  
  
The Supernatural series is now about Dean, Sam, and Castiel for her. That is weird as hell, and it raises the stakes for her. One more character… one more person… for her to care about and be afraid for, in this endless stream of bad luck and horrible events that seems to make up each novel.   
  
So she goes back and reads the scene again where Dean and Sam come across an army of slash fans. Because imagining their faces in that scene cracks her up. Oh, if only she had been there to warn them.  
  
She hopes they never find out about kink memes.


	30. Tippy rescues old plotbunnies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A few old plotbunnies I rescued from deep within my ask box.

**200dollargod asked: Dean/Cas, Buffy episode “Halloween” (the one where Ethan makes everyone into their Halloween costumes).**

“Ah don’t know what y'all’re talkin’ about,” Dean said, chewing on his tobacco and then spitting, disgustingly, onto the sidewalk. “Ah’ve always been a cowboy, ever since my Mama bore me.”

Sam hopped indignantly. Castiel petted him, trying to soothe the tortured rabbit. “No, Dean,” he said, trying in vain to erase the lilt from his voice, “you haven’t. That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. We’ve been cursed.”

“Cursed how? Y'can’t tell me you haven’t always been an angel. Just look ’t ‘em wings.”

“Yes, well…” Castiel attempted for the fifteenth time to retract the fluffy, white wings he’d developed. They wouldn’t go, and neither would the halo, even though its light was creating an annoying glow in his peripheral vision and making him squint to block it out. “That was true even before the curse. Trust me, I didn’t always look quite the way I looked now.”

“Well, ain’t that a cryin’ shame,” Dean said, and gave Castiel a wink. “Cause the way I figure it, ya look better than most saloon girls I’ve seen. Ever sat by a campfire under a full moon, pardner?”

And the way he was grinning, and looking Castiel up and down, made Castiel consider – just for a minute – letting this curse stay unbroken a while longer.

* * *

**rustypeopleskillz asked: Dean and Cas, their daughter’s room.**

She wants to be an astronaut. So on her birthday Castiel takes her out to an amusement park all day while Dean has Sam over and the two of them work all day on the room. When Castiel brings her home (after some furtive discussion on his cell phone with Dean), he blindfolds her and leads her up the stairs to her bedroom.

The blindfold comes off and if Dean could etch any memory into his mind forever and ever, never to be forgotten, it would be Mariel’s face at that moment.

Her eyes are filled with stars – not just the ones reflected there from her new wallpaper and glow-in-the-dark ceiling, but the ones that fly through her imagination every day of her young life. She takes in the spacescape that surrounds her, the planets and constellations and occasional meteor or rocket ship – and her jaw falls open, her mouth widening into a smile when Sam lifts his hands and the candlelight from her birthday cake fills the room with a dim glow.

“Do you like it?” Castiel asks her, and Mariel nods, her mouth still stretched wide open in wonder.

Castiel goes to Dean then, slips their hands together into a firm lock, and kisses him on the cheek. “Good job, honey,” he murmurs.

“Hey, thank Sam, too,” Dean says. “Couldn'ta got those high corners without him.”

“Yeah,” Sam quips, “thank Sam, too.”

Castiel smiles. “Thank you, Sam too,” he says, deadpan, and they all grin.

Mariel approaches her cake, and the three men in the room break into a low baritone chorus of “Happy Birthday.” Above and around them, a million stars gleam.


	31. A couple romantic Dean/Cas things

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A couple of Dean/Cas prompts thrown at me.

**Anonymous asked you: Prompt: Dean always expected kissing Cas would feel different than kissing a human,even after he has fallen. It isn’t. He is conflicted. Cas is confused.**

Lips on lips. The soft sound of their parting. And Dean steps back, confused.  
  
“What is it?” Castiel has trouble finding his voice.  
  
“Nothing,” Dean says. “I– nothing.”  
  
Castiel’s hand travels to his lips, touches them briefly. “That was good,” he says, hesitant. “It felt good.”   
  
Dean watches the color in his cheeks. Irritation claws at him. “Was it?” he says, a scoff of disbelief in the words.  
  
“Yes,” Castiel says, meeting his gaze. “Did you not think so?”  
  
Dean takes in a breath. “I thought,” he says slowly, “I don’t know… I thought there’d be more.”  
  
“More?” Castiel tilts his head in that familiar way, and Dean feels again the leaping of warmth in his heart. He wants to grab Castiel and kiss him again, but at the same time, he’s so… disappointed isn’t the right word. Surprised? But you’re surprised when something happens, and nothing happened. The kiss was just a kiss. Same as a hundred other kisses he’s had. Warm, liquid, pleasant, but…  
  
“You know,” he says, his hand sweeping through the air in a frustrated little gesture. “Your… leftover angel mojo or whatever. I thought there’d be white light and fireworks.”  
  
“I’m only human, now,” Castiel reminds him.  
  
It just frustrates Dean more. “That doesn’t matter,” he says. “It shouldn’t matter. How can kissing you be just like kissing anyone else, when the rest is so damn different?”  
  
“Different? How?”   
  
Castiel honestly doesn’t know, Dean realizes. And explaining it is going to be a hell of a task. “You, Cas,” he says, gaze darting away, looking at anything but Castiel. “You’re different from any girl I ever– from anyone. I look at you and I feel like I found something that’s missing. Like something – God, no offense at this,” he mutters, “–like something dropped out of heaven just for me.” He winces, both at the turn of phrase and at the meaning it must hold for Castiel. _Change the damn subject, now._ “And– and trust me, it took some guts to get up the nerve to kiss you. So where are the freaking fireworks?”  
  
He gets up the courage to look at Castiel again. Cas is looking at him a little sadly. “I don’t know,” he says. “Maybe I’m not good at it.”  
  
Dean scoffs. “You were fine. I’ve had bad kisses, and that wasn’t one. But it was just– just a kiss,” he finishes lamely, sighing.   
  
“Then maybe,” Castiel says, “maybe that’s all it was meant to be.”  
  
Dean eyes him. “But that’s– but how I feel is–”   
  
“Or maybe,” Castiel goes on, “we need more practice.” He smiles – just barely, a sneaking smile that drifts across his face and is gone.  
  
Dean’s heart speeds up at the sight of it. “Maybe,” he admits, and when Castiel leans in to kiss him again, he doesn’t fight it.   
  
And it’s the same – just a kiss, just warmth and pressure, no flashes of magical light or sensation that can’t be described in words. But there is sensation, and it flows deep in Dean’s body through that kiss, warming him with an utterly human sense of rightness. And it deepens and strengthens in the next kiss, and in the embrace that follows.  
  
Maybe the fireworks are there after all. They’re just smaller, and they take some time to get going. And maybe there’s nothing wrong with a kiss being just a kiss.

* * *

 

**Anon asked for super fluffy giggly in-love sex. This is my version of that.** _  
_

Dean’s the last person in the world to do any of this, and yet he finds himself doing it.   
  
Laughing, for example. Running his hands down Castiel’s sides and laughing as Castiel fights to keep from laughing himself. Who knew an angel, fallen or no, could be ticklish? The idea absolutely delights Dean, and he laughs, his grin stretching wide across his face, and sees just how much he can tease before Castiel gets cranky and bats his hand away.   
  
Or sighing, leaning into Castiel’s neck and smelling his skin, taking in a breath of warm air and letting it out again with a noise of pleasure that he can’t suppress. It’s completely against Dean’s M.O. to make a noise like that, but it still comes out.  
  
Running his hands along lean thighs, pulling a pair of hips flush with his – that’s a little more in character, though groaning at the feel of a hard cock bumping his falls into the realm of improbable, too. Still, Dean groans, and hisses a swear through tight lips, as a rush of wild heat roars through him and makes his hips cant upward for more contact. The rub of Castiel against him is almost more than he can bear, and he tips his head back, still groaning, now shuddering when Castiel’s lips come down hard on his exposed neck.  
  
But the kicker, the thing Dean does that’s least like Dean, isn’t the frantic kissing or the way they pull each other’s clothes off like time is ticking away too fast. It’s not even Dean’s long, lustful stare at the expanse of Castiel’s body, his eyes roving up and down stretches of bare skin. It isn’t the way his hand comes down so gently on the hard jut of Castiel’s cock and strokes until Castiel’s biting his lip and moaning. And no, it’s not the way he works his fingers inside Castiel, slicking him up as Castiel’s hips twitch and shift on his hand.  
  
It’s the way he whispers “I love you” just before he slides inside – like it’s the most important secret in the world, like he desperately needs Castiel to hear it. Dean would never be caught dead saying something like that, so tenderly, showing so much of his hidden heart.  
  
But he can’t bring himself to regret it when it happens. Especially not after he hears Castiel’s answer.


	32. Something's Right

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's an interesting block of missing time during 9x06; it's night and they're in the car, Dean asks Cas "where to?" The next thing we know, it's morning and Dean's dropping Cas off at the Gas 'n' Sip. 
> 
> Well. SOMETHING happened during that time. Here's the first of two suggestions as to how it could go.

“Where to, Cas?”  
  
For a moment Castiel looks at him blankly. He doesn’t know where. He can’t let Dean know he’s been sleeping on the floor at the back of the market most nights. (Why he can’t tell Dean this he doesn’t know, but he knows he can’t tell him.) He hasn’t yet decided his answer when he opens the car door and silently gets in. But he can’t stand looking at Dean like that, looking at Dean _looking at him_ like that, for one more second.  
  
What is he going to tell Dean? He can’t say to drop him off at the Gas-n-Sip, not at this hour of the night, or Dean will guess his secret. And he doesn’t think he can fool Dean into believing he owns one of the beautiful houses that line the streets in this area of town. He’s fumbling for the best possible lie when Dean gets in next to him, levels that crooked smile, and says, “Well? Name the place.”  
  
Castiel squints at the dashboard. “I think,” he says, and he glances at Dean, wondering what Dean would say if he told the truth. _I’d like to go back with you, Dean._ But he has no reason to think Dean’s changed his mind, and Castiel is not going to give him the satisfaction of pleading, no matter how he aches for a bed and for the warm touch of friends’ voices. Instead, he says, “I think I’d like to just drive around for a while. If that’s all right with you.”  
  
He can feel Dean’s surprise, see the furrowing of Dean’s brow out of the corner of his eye, and he’s about to apologize and recant when Dean says, “Yeah. Yeah, of course. You’ve had a rough night.”  
  
“That’s an understatement,” Castiel says.  
  
“Yeah, never mind renegade angels, you thought you were going on a date…”  
  
“…and ended up on baby duty.” Dean shakes his head and laughs in response. Castiel has to grin. They’re speaking in tandem, experiencing that quick back-and-forth rapport that he witnessed in those two guys high-fiving in the store the other day. Castiel was confused as to why they should speak that easily with each other when it’s so hard for him to even form a sentence. He sees now that words come easier the longer you’ve known someone. Maybe, under the right circumstances, Dean might even give him a high-five.  
  
Dean revs the engine and pulls away from the house, and they cruise residential streets, watching the pretty picture-book houses go by. For a while they do so in near-silence. Once Dean puts his hand on the radio dial, then says, “Music?”  
  
“Nah,” Castiel replies, and then they fall silent again. Castiel rolls down his window and feels the air on his face. So much more refreshing when he’s exposing himself to the elements by choice, rather than necessity.  
  
Did he really just think words came easier with old friends? He can’t think of a thing to say to Dean right now. He’d ask after Sam, but if Sam were anything but well Dean wouldn’t even be here, and any discussions of the two of them might lead back into the same debacle that ended up getting Castiel thrown out. That has to have been the reason – Castiel had been an unwelcome houseguest. He’d assumed too much, been too familiar. He can think of no other explanation, and he doesn’t want to expose himself to that rejection again.  
  
Dean had thought Castiel was scared of the angel. Ephraim was scary, yes, but Dean is the scarier one right now. Castiel doesn’t know the right thing to say or do around him. And yet he still wants to be around him. He doesn’t want this ride to end, uncomfortable as it might be. Something is right with the world when Dean is close by.  
  
“You know what?” Dean says abruptly, slamming his hands down on the steering wheel.   
  
Castiel jumps.  
  
“I could use a beer and a bad movie.” He tilts his head, fires off a smile at Castiel. “Could you use a beer and a bad movie?”  
  
Castiel pulls himself together. “Yes,” he says carefully, “I think I could.”  
  
* * *  
  
They stop at an all-night convenience store for a six-pack and head back to Dean’s motel room, where Dean’s all paid up for another night. (“Woulda slept in the car,” Dean says, “but I’m used to beds now, damn it.”) Dean settles onto the bed and grabs the remote, flipping channels until he finds a man in a monster suit grabbing a model building and breaking it in half. At this point he mutters “All right” and reaches for the beer.   
  
Castiel sits in the chair by the door and squints, trying to see the small screen from the odd vantage point. He sits as he usually does, straight up, with his hands folded into his lap.  
  
Dean glances over at him once the scene switches from the wanton destruction to the science lab where white-coated Japanese men are speaking urgently to one another. “Dude,” he says. “Come on over.” He jerks his head to the side, indicating the other side of the bed.  
  
Alarm bells chime inside Castiel’s head. It’s a trap. He’ll make himself unwelcome again. “I don’t want to crowd you,” he says.  
  
“You’re not crowding me. Come on. Grab a beer, take a load off. Relax.”  
  
Relax, he says, but Castiel can’t relax. He’s too afraid of saying the wrong thing, doing something misguided and foolish, making Dean write him off as an annoyance. He’s failed at so much. Whether it’s fixing heaven or fixing slushy machines, he can’t seem to be competent when the pressure is on.   
  
“Cas,” Dean barks, rolling his eyes. “Sit.”  
  
Castiel nods stiffly, grabs a beer from the six-pack, and sits precariously down on the edge of the bed.  
  
Somewhere between the first commercial break and the second beer, though, he finds himself slumping and is surprised at how comfortable it is. Dean’s breaths and occasional swallows next to him beat a quiet rhythm against the cacophonic noise of the movie, regulating him, making him relax despite himself. He allows himself a small smile.  
  
“So you’ve been good,” Dean says. “You know, taking care of yourself, working…”  
  
Castiel’s glad it’s not a question. That way he doesn’t have to answer in a lie. “Thank you.” He pauses. “And you…?” _And Sam?_ he thinks, but doesn’t say it. It seems Dean alone he can deal with, but Dean plus Sam equals a life he can’t have, no matter what Dean says about him being a hunter in training. There’s no point being a hunter if he’s not hunting with them.  
  
“We’re good,” Dean says. “Sam’s still recovering, you know, from the trials, but it’s all good.” He flips the channel a few times and eventually comes back to the monster movie. “I, uh…”  
  
“What?”  
  
Dean glances at him, then returns his gaze to the TV. “Nothing,” he says. “Never mind.”  
  
Castiel vacillates for a long moment, wondering what the “never mind” was going to be. Wondering what he should say, what he shouldn’t say. It was never a problem as an angel, leaving something unsaid. But now the words are at the base of his throat, itching to come out. He doesn’t know how he’ll make it another minute without saying them.  
  
 Finally, he takes a breath. “Dean, I–”  
  
“Look, Cas–” Dean says at the same time.  
  
They look at each other, then Dean looks away, a rueful smile on his face. “Go ahead, man.”  
  
“I just wanted to say I’m sorry,” Castiel says. “For whatever it is that I did that made you– that meant I had to leave. I’m not asking to come back,” he adds quickly. “I’m not asking for forgiveness, or help. I just wanted you to know that I’m sorry.”  
  
Dean looks at him as though he’s just spoken in a foreign language. Finally he shakes his head. “Cas, man, no. It’s not like that. It was just– We don’t know how angel-proofed the bunker is, and we’ve got Kevin living there, and Crowley– it just– it seemed like a better idea for you to keep moving.”  
  
 _But I’ve stopped moving,_ Castiel thinks. _I’ve been here for a month and you’re not telling me to leave here._ The lie’s just as thin as it was when Dean told it the first time. Castiel doesn’t know why Dean’s lying, but there has to be a good explanation. Dean doesn’t lie without a reason. It’s just that he tends to have a lot of reasons.  
  
“I suppose,” he answers lamely, and leaves it at that.   
  
But Dean’s still gazing at him. “Cas, look. Even if we can’t share our digs with you, you’re still family. You need something, you got it.  I was glad when you called, dude. It was good to hear your voice.”   
  
“Yes,” Castiel says. “And yours.” And it’s good to be in Dean’s presence again, to feel the familiar heat of him close by. If Castiel could, he’d lean forward and drink it in. Something lurches inside him, and he thinks of April. As much as the thought of her betrayal sickens him, he still remembers with some fondness the feeling when she first touched her lips to his. A dizzying, warm tension had filled the air. Castiel had wondered, briefly, where he’d felt it before. Now he knows.   
  
“There are things I wanna tell you,” Dean says. “But I can’t right now. It’s complicated, and it’s a mess, and we have demons breathing down our necks right and left, and–”  
  
“It’s okay,” Castiel says. “You don’t have to explain.”  
  
“I don’t?” Dean blinks.  
  
“No.” Castiel finds himself smiling. “You’re right. It’s better for me to be out here. I’m learning more every day about what it means to be human, and the last thing I need is to get involved with demons again. Or angels, for that matter. I’m doing well just as I am.”   
  
“Yeah,” Dean says, smiling back. “I guess you are.”  
  
Castiel doesn’t know how it happened, but they’re sitting way closer to each other than they had been when Castiel first moved to the bed. Dean’s shoulder is almost touching his.   
  
A funny thought occurs to Castiel then, and he laughs.  
  
“What?” Dean says.  
  
“We’re watching a movie and having drinks,” Castiel says. “I had a date tonight after all.”  
  
Dean shakes his head. “Come on, man.”  
  
“What’s more,” Castiel goes on, “I think I might end up staying the night.”   
  
Dean grins hugely and claps him on the back. “At least your jokes are getting better,” he says.   
  
And Castiel meant it as a joke, he truly did, but that tension still rolls over him in waves, and he wonders what would happen if he were to lean in and touch Dean’s mouth with his own. It’s the first time he’s considered such a notion, and the sudden reaction of his own body frightens him. He gets up, with the pretense of taking another beer, and when he sits back down he makes sure to keep a respectable distance.  
  
But when dawn breaks, and Castiel opens his eyes to discover the warmth against his body is Dean’s sleeping form curled up next to his, he doesn’t panic. He takes a deep breath, inhaling the familiar scent, and closes his eyes again. He’ll worry about what it means later. For now, he can enjoy it without being scared. Dean is close to him, and that means something’s right with the world.


	33. Left Unsaid

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is the other way things might have gone during that missing block of time in 9x06.

“Where to, Cas?”

The night stretches out long and dark in front of Castiel like an invitation. He knows the question behind the question. It’s in Dean’s eyes, the lopsided quirk of his smile. Castiel’s seen it before, and he’s never said no to it. He could now, though. Or he could get in the car without a word, and ride on toward oblivion.  
  
 _(It’s without words the first time. Dean has that smile on his face, like a stain in the aftermath of spilling laughter, and he backs Castiel up against a wall, pressing their bodies together, turning Castiel’s spine into a long line of heat. His fingers wander downward, and his breath puffs against Castiel’s chin, its quickness the question. Castiel parts his lips in answer.)_  
  
He should say no. It would serve Dean right for exiling him, pushing him away at the very moment when Castiel thought he’d finally found a home. Anger flares up inside Castiel’s chest for a moment, and he tries to fix Dean with a dagger of a gaze, but it’s gone before it begins. The answer is yes. It’s always been yes. And with his hand still smarting from where he punctured it, and his heart still hurting from misunderstandings and unnecessary violence, he needs the comfort.   
  
He gets in the car.   
  
A minute later, Dean slides in beside him, the smile in his face no longer a question. Silence lies hot and weighty in the air between them, and the growl of the motor fills it up again for a ride that both takes forever and is over in a second. Time always travels strangely in these moments, during their journey from the public world to their private, secret one.  
  
 _(The second time, there are words, but just a few. Mostly afterward, when Castiel is still breathing hard and Dean climbs to his feet, wiping his mouth. “Nobody has to know about this,” he says. “You got me, Cas? Nobody knows.” Castiel nods, and Dean smiles and lets Castiel taste the salt on his tongue.)_  
  
Castiel knows the walk well, that easy, side-by-side gait that takes them to the motel room door. Even if anyone were watching, nobody could pick up on the tension, the urgency swirling in the air around them. At least, that’s the idea.   
  
Back when he was an angel, he executed it flawlessly. He even felt a bit superior as his senses picked up on Dean’s accelerated heartbeat, the slight tremor in his hands as he fished the key out of his pocket and brings it to the door. But as a human, he sees none of it anymore. Dean’s impossibly smooth and casual, and in comparison Castiel feels like he must be glowing in the dark. A beacon of need, no longer able to control his body’s movements or reactions the way he used to.  
  
A click, the squeaking of hinges. Dean’s jacket rustles as he walks inside.  
  
Then, they stand there, face to face. The air conditioner rattles.  
  
Dean’s palm tips forward, an offer.  
  
Castiel’s voice breaks as he moves forward. “Dean.”  
  
 _(“Dean.” Cas gasps and arches up on the bed. Dean’s hand closes tight, and the pressure turns from tantalizing to constricting. Cas can feel himself throbbing against Dean’s fingers._  
  
 _“Don’t say my name like that,” Dean says. “You say my name, it makes it weird.”_  
  
 _“I–” Castiel doesn’t want it to be weird, but mostly he doesn’t want it to stop. “Okay.” He manages to keep his moans wordless from then on, but Dean’s name remains, stuck at the bottom of his throat, dying to come free._  
  
 _He slips a few times after that. Each time, Dean scowls and slows down until Castiel apologizes._  
  
 _But the first time Castiel wraps his mouth around Dean, a cracked “Cas– Christ–” expels itself from Dean’s lips, and since then, Dean’s never complained.)_  
  
Dean’s mouth is brutal on his, a kiss like a bite, predatory. Castiel grabs the edges of Dean’s jacket; Dean goes straight to unbuttoning Castiel’s shirt. They swap hot, brief kisses as they stumble toward the bed. Dean breathes curses in between each kiss – “fuck” and “holy shit” – and Castiel just pulls him in, pressing their mouths together to cut off the flow of words.  
  
They hit the bed too fast, and Castiel loses his breath for an instant. It’s long enough for Dean to throw off his jacket and shirt, and when Castiel reaches up, he touches bare skin. Dean arches into the touch, rubbing against Castiel’s palm, then rising to his knees to urge it downward. Castiel obediently gets to work on Dean’s zipper. “Fuckin’ yeah,” Dean hisses when Castiel gets a handful of boxer-clad cock and runs his fingers up the length of it. “Finally.”  
  
Castiel almost stops him. Another rush of anger jars against his ribs. Dean has no right to say that, not after the last time. But a moment later Dean’s on top of him, easing his pants down and rutting their hips together, and Castiel is too lost in the sensation to ask questions.  
  
 _(Castiel comes to Dean’s bedroom in the middle of the night after wandering the bunker awhile, marveling at the place. He meant to just look around, but he was always going to end up here, stepping through Dean’s doorway and closing the door behind him._  
  
 _“Cas,” Dean starts, but Castiel puts a finger to his lips._  
  
 _He sits on the bed, runs his hand up Dean’s thigh. His version of asking the silent question._  
  
 _“We can’t,” Dean says._  
  
 _Air whooshes into Castiel’s lungs in a shocked gasp. He’d always assumed Dean couldn’t say “no” either. Wasn’t that what they’d been doing? Being unable to stay away from each other, giving in to the urge to touch and kiss even though they knew they could never talk about it?_  
  
 _“But,” he says when he can control his breath again, “but you want to–”_  
  
 _And Dean does – it’s clear enough for Castiel to see – but still he shakes his head, looking furtively to his side as though expecting someone to be peering in at them through a hole in the wall. “Cas, I’m sorry, we can’t.” And that’s all he’ll say, even though he shudders when Castiel leans in to breathe against his neck, even though Castiel’s fingers on his groin make him moan softly. “We– we can’t. Not here.”_  
  
 _“Why?”_  
  
 _“We just can’t,” Dean snaps, getting up from the bed and pacing halfway across the room. “Go to bed, Cas.” He isn’t even looking at him._  
  
 _Castiel is sure he’s never felt so awful as he does when he slinks out of that room.)_  
  
The _why?_ still resonates, spinning in Castiel’s mind as Dean slots their now-bare legs together, eases them into a steady rutting rhythm. Castiel groans. Dean makes a muffled noise against his shoulder. He curls his hands around Castiel’s ass and tightens his fingers possessively.  
  
But does it even matter why, when Dean’s hard against him and they’re together, sweating and breathing in tandem? Isn’t this what Castiel wanted back at the bunker? Shouldn’t he just be glad he’s getting it now? He’s learned over the weeks he’s been human that life doesn’t come with any guarantees. If anything, he should be glad for the moment, no matter what it means or doesn’t mean.  
  
But _why_?  
  
Dean gasps “Cas” into his ear, and the lurch of lust that burns through Castiel takes him to the edge. He holds on as long as he can, but Dean’s legs are long and strong folded between his, and his hips move like rolling stormclouds. Castiel tumbles over into orgasm, crying out, his fingers clamping behind Dean’s neck to pull him in. Dean starts to shudder next to him, and suddenly it doesn’t matter why or why not or what happened before, so long as Castiel gets to be here, now, feeling Dean break apart against him.   
  
He holds Dean tight until he’s done, kisses him once on the mouth, and they roll away onto separate sides of the bed as though they’d never touched.  
  
In the morning, Castiel wakes up and they’re tangled together, arms and legs everywhere. He pulls away and turns over, because Dean wouldn’t like to wake up like this. They’re not supposed to touch afterward. Those are the rules.  
  
Dean drops him off at work, and Castiel gets out of the car, suited up for a day on the job and ready to part the way they came together, without words. He gets out of the car and turns back to close the door behind him.  
  
Dean’s half-smiling again, the way he did when he’d asked the first silent question. For a moment, Castiel thinks he’s asking another. And Castiel considers answering, or asking a question of his own.  
  
He holds Dean’s gaze for a long time before Dean raises his hand in a silent farewell.  
  
Castiel knows then that the question won’t be asked. Because that’s just how it works with Dean. Things are left unsaid.  
  
He turns around and goes inside.


	34. Cas is sick

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I forget whether this had to do with something in canon or not. I think Cas might have been sick from his bleeding grace.

Cas in that bed, coughing, his lungs feeling like they’re gonna burst, feverish like his body’s trying to eat him from the inside out, and burning with shame and the desire to live and guilt for having that desire. And when he’s asleep he dreams, sometimes strange dreams full of color and light and shapes that he can’t name, sometimes dreams out of the thousands and thousands of books and movies and plays Metatron uploaded into his brain. Dreams where Castiel is Spartacus, Hamlet, Tony Soprano. Dreams where Winchesters and stout growling demons waltz in and out in period costume, to deliver a memorable line. He wakes up disoriented and half wishing the dream had gone on, because the dreams have a plot, and when he’s dreaming he’s not feeling the pain.

But then there’s the times when the fever’s too much, and he can’t sleep, so he shivers and sweats in that blanket, curling up with it, burying his face in the pillow and gritting his teeth and trying to outlast the pain. _Man up_ , the voice in his head says. _It’s just pain. You’ll get through it._ _Just think of something else_. _Anything else. Go to **your** mind palace._

And Castiel tries to dream up his favorite heaven, full of green things, but it melts at the edges of his mental vision and crumples under a sweeping wall of flame. Heaven ain’t what it used to be, and neither is he.

Then he thinks about the sea, imagines dousing himself in the cold water, some places blue, some places green as a pair of eyes he knows well and

_Dean._

Dean lecturing him about the way humans act and how Castiel is doing it wrong. Dean sharing a beer with his brother and then, as though suddenly remembering Castiel is in the room, reaching down to the cooler and holding one up. Dean with his eyes full of glory and fury in the heat of battle. Dean smiling at him like they’ve shared a million misadventures, and they have.

For a short moment he can breathe easier, and for a short moment his grip on the comforter goes slack. He’s somewhere else, and it’s getting him through, just like the voice in his head told him.

He thinks it might have been Dean’s voice.


	35. Ghost/Living Person AU

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Requested from an AU meme.

Cas says he stayed around because of his daughter. 

A beautiful girl, named Claire, and Dean’s room is the room she used to stay in, before the accident and Cas’s untimely demise. “I could have gone on,” he admits to Dean. “I had the choice. But I couldn’t leave her.”

The irony being, of course, that she’s left him. She and her mother packed up and moved to a different house as soon as they could. This one held too many memories. And now Cas is stuck here, to a house that no longer contains his loved ones, unable to leave or to move on. He’s consumed by restlessness and loneliness, and although he tries to keep to walking the halls when the house’s new owner is asleep, Dean eventually catches him.

But Dean doesn’t scream or run. Dean’s just.. intrigued. “A ghost, huh?” he says. “Okay.” And he lives with it.

Dean’s missing someone too. His brother, who’s gone away to school. So he and Cas keep each other company, exchange tales of families long gone or estranged, and occasionally find something worth laughing about. 

Dean tried to touch him once. He wasn’t thinking about it — he just reached out as Cas was about to leave, swiped his hand through Cas’s arm, and recoiled as a chill passed through him. “I forgot,” he mumbled when Cas turned in surprise. “You’re so real to me, I just…” 

And Cas *is* real. He’s just not solid. Though he remembers watching movies and TV shows about ghosts, and they’re always able to interact with the physical world somehow — whether it’s shattering glasses or out-and-out murdering people. Cas starts to wonder. And then he starts to practice. Next time Dean reaches out for him, he wants to be there.

He may not just be staying around for Claire anymore.


	36. After Cain dies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Castiel is glad to see Dean came back.

“You came back.”

Dean looks up. He’s been in his room for only a few minutes, putting away his things after their latest road trip, and he was just about to kick his feet up onto the bed and get some shut-eye. He thinks he can sleep now, knowing he’s come back from the brink. When he curls his fingers he can still feel the outline of the Blade, but he could let go when it was important, and that gives him some peace of mind.

Peace of mind, maybe, but there will be no sleep, not right now. Castiel stands in his doorway, with one of those inscrutable Castiel expressions. This one Dean thinks might hold some relief and some lingering worry, but he can never be sure.

“Cas,” he says. “C’mon in.”

Castiel steps into the room. “I waited downstairs with Sam,” he says. “We heard the sounds of your fight. The walls shook. And then silence, then one last—” He stops, spies the chair by Dean’s desk, and sits down. “And then silence.”

Dean holds his gaze for a minute, then nods. The Mark throbs dully on his arm.

“What were you— no, never mind.” Castiel shakes his head firmly. “I don’t need to know.”

Dean fights down an urge to answer. He’s not the sharing-his-feelings type by a long shot, but something about Castiel makes him want to. Maybe it’s the earnest look in his eyes, or the knowledge of what they’ve been through together. It’s like a part of him has bled into Castiel, and vice versa, somewhere between the pulling from hell and the running through purgatory, and keeping things from Cas feels a bit like keeping them from himself. Which doesn’t seem right, somehow, even though he ought to have a Nobel Prize in bottling up emotions.

“I’m sorry for intruding,” Castiel says, then, apropos of nothing.

“Nah, don’t worry about it. Mi b… bunker es su bunker.” He was about to say _Mi bedroom es su bedroom_ , but he realized how that sounded just in time.

“Anyway.” Castiel clears his throat. “There was silence, and I thought, maybe you were going to leave us there, take the Blade and go off— somewhere, to do something. But you came back.”

He falls silent then, and Dean stares at him for a moment. Did he come here just to rehash what happened? What’s his point?

“And?” he prompts, when the silence has gone on too long.

“And,” Castiel says, musing over the word. His gaze flies to his feet.

Dean’s starting to get impatient. “Yeah?”

Castiel licks his lips, takes in a breath, and lifts his gaze to meet Dean’s. “And,” he says, “I’m glad.”

Dean doesn’t know what to say to that one.

“Thank you, Dean,” Castiel says. “For coming back.”

Dean nods, smiling a little. “Yeah,” he says. “It’s good to be back.”

Castiel answers his smile, rises to his feet and leaves. Dean watches him go. Then he kicks up his feet onto the bed, folds his hands behind his head, and closes his eyes.


	37. Property Brothers AU

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With the caveat that I've never seen Property Brothers.

Sam worries about things like the color scheme, but Dean is the more practical of the two brothers, Castiel is discovering as his dingy condo slowly transforms into something that feels a little more like home. And that doesn’t have to do with just screws and wrenches.

Right now, for instance, they’re out shopping mattresses. Castiel has selected a gorgeous design for his new king bed, and he’s very excited about the look of it. But Dean’s much more interested in how it feels. “Memory foam,” he keeps saying. “It’s worth the investment, dude.”

Castiel frowns. “I don’t know. I prefer my bed firm. I don’t like the idea of the mattress… sinking beneath me.”

“It’s really not like that.” Dean scratches his head, as though he can’t wrap his brain around what Castiel is saying. “It remembers you so it’ll stay firm in the places you want it to.” He punctuates his words with a leering nod and raise of his eyebrows.

Castiel has no idea what he means. Dean’s infuriating, at the least. Sam was the one who did most of the selling, at first – if Dean had done it, with his off-color comments and his insistence on referring to Castiel as “Cas” from first meeting – Castiel’s not sure he would have taken the Winchester Brothers up on their offer to remodel the place. He doesn’t regret it, though. For all the frustration, they have done a hell of a job so far.

“Ya know what I mean,” Dean goes on. “You get a girl, it remembers her, too –”

And there’s the crux of the problem, isn’t it? That’s why Dean’s crude jokes keep rubbing Castiel the wrong way. He’s _assuming_ too much. Castiel doesn’t want a girl in his bed. He doesn’t really care much about what happens in his bed, to be honest – there are too many books to read and plays to see to spend his time fumbling around an awkward first date – but if there _were_ someone in his bed, it’d probably be a man. A manly man. Someone with muscles and an easygoing manner, someone who laughs at life. A guy with crinkles around his eyes and bowlegs, who looks great in cowboy boots and flannel shirts. The kind of guy you can put your hands around and grip tight, and he’ll just growl and tell you to hold on tighter –

_a guy just like Dean._

Castiel turns around quickly, his heart hammering. The knowledge goes down through his spine and hangs out in his hips, and he’s going to have to name Shakespeare’s complete works before he can turn back around without embarrassment. He should have seen this coming. But no, it’s snuck up on him and grabbed him tight, and now he’s screwed. _Dean._ His face floods with color just thinking about it. Dean and mattresses, and how is Castiel supposed to continue this shopping trip without thinking about how Dean would look, all sleep-rumpled, waking up on his beloved memory foam mattress right next to him?

It’s going to be a long renovation.


	38. Poetry Slam

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cas writes poetry.

_…if she looked at me.’  
_

Thank you!“

Dean contributes to the smattering of applause and leans back in his chair. The guy’s poem had been good, not great, but then again Dean’s pretty sick of love poems. That’s what the new guys always bring when they come to their first slam – some poem about the love of their life and how her hair was like sunlight and her eyes were deep pools of something or other. They’re heartfelt, and Dean appreciates that – but it’s not a twinge of his heartstrings he’s looking for when he comes to a slam. It’s the stirring of his soul, that feeling that the words are flying through the air like bullets, ripping him wide open one by one. He wants to be impaled on a poem.

It doesn’t look like he’s gonna be so much as scratched by this next guy, though. He’s cute, with mussed hair and blinking blue eyes, but he looks itchy in his own skin, and he’s wearing a suit, like he just came from an accounting firm. In this den of jeans and anti-establishment T-shirts, he sticks out like the sorest of thumbs. Dean watches the guy glance repeatedly down at his papers, and steels himself to listen through a poem’s worth of stumbling, stuttering phrases.

Suit guy steps up onto the dais and takes a breath, pressing his lips close to the microphone. Dean’s eyelids droop.

 _I gripped you tight_  
and raised you from Perdition.  


The voice rumbles through Dean like a freight train. He looks up.

How did _that_ voice come from _that_ guy? Although now the mousy affect is gone, and suit guy’s eyes are wide and piercing, his jaw set and his hands firm as he reads from the pages. He reads of purpose and power, of a world of angels and demons reflected in the story of two men, and Dean sees with each word an epic saga being laid before him.

At times Dean closes his eyes and felt the words wash over him. achingly intimate.

_–my hand on your shoulder, searing a brand on your skin–_

And at times he sits up straight and stares, bolted to this stranger’s eyes as his voice rasps around syllables of lightning and flame. 

_-wings char black skeletons into the ground_ , _grace burning into eternity-_

Blue eyes burn with knowledge, and Dean wants to know it all too, wants to stare into eyes like that from only inches away. He wants to see what this man saw that prompted this torrent of electric language. Dean’s not just impaled on  these words, he’s crucified on them. He lies prone on the altar of this poet whose soul he wants, more than badly, to see.

At the end, those blue eyes catch his, and the final lines of the poem burn straight into his gut.

 _-the archangel descends,_  
and i tell him,  
we’re making it up as we go along.

The vulnerability in those lines, even after all that power. Dean loses his breath. He forgets to even clap. He just stares.

"Thank you,” the guy says, and even in those two words the hesitation is back in his voice. The poet is peeled away and now he’s just another scared newbie at his first slam. Dean briefly imagines moving up to him, sliding a hand under his jaw, forcing those eyes to meet his. Telling him, “Don’t worry, man. You were great.”

And then staring into his eyes until Dean can see through them…

“Did you not like it?”

Dean shakes himself alert. He was so lost in the brief fantasy that he didn’t even notice the guy coming up to him. He sits up straight, then realizes that’s not enough and stands.

“Uh,” he says, and oh my god the guy is close and he’s cuter up close, no, cuter isn’t the right word, he’s handsome, hot even.

“You were staring at me the whole time,” the guy says, “so I thought you were enjoying it, but then you didn’t clap, so…”

“I– I liked it,” Dean manages to spit out. “I liked it a lot, it was amazing, actually.”

A smile touches the corners of the man’s mouth. “Thank you. I’m sorry to single you out.”

“Don’t, don’t be sorry, sit down, have a drink.” Dean’s falling all over himself to get this guy to stay next to him. “I want to hear all about it. That poem, the – the creative process for that must have been off the hook. Tell me.”

Now the blue-eyed stranger is the one at a loss for words. “I–”

“I’m Dean. No, really, man, sit down.” Luckily, the guy does, because Dean was just about to reach over and push down on his shoulders. “You gotta tell me about that poem. How did you get the idea for it?”

The man smiles again, a little wider this time, and he looks a little dorky and a lot cute when he does. The urge to kiss him isn’t going anywhere anytime soon. “From my name, actually.”

“Which is?” Dean’s grateful for the segue. It was going to be awkward to ask outright.

“Castiel. I’m named after an obscure angel. So, growing up, I was obviously interested in angelic lore. I’ve seen myself as a sort of grounded angel my whole life… I suppose that sounds egomaniacal, but it was just my version of imagining. Some children play that they’re princes or cowboys.” He reddens, visibly even in the dim light. “I’m rambling.”

“No,” Dean says. And he’s honestly fascinated, as much with the low, guttural scrape of Castiel’s voice as with the words. “Go on.”

“The point is,” Castiel says, “I framed my struggles, my coming-of-age, et cetera… all of it within that context. That’s what I intend to convey in my work. That attempt to find a broader context to life’s menial struggles.”

“Wow. And all I got out of it were angels and demons.” And possibly a crush. “Shows you what I know.”

Castiel’s face falls. “I see.”

“It’s– it’s because of the slam,” Dean hurriedly explains. “I come in here to get, well, slammed. For that in-the-face feeling. The words pounding at me, like–” He manages to not finish that simile. “If I read it on paper, it might be different, but what I got out of you reading it? Just– power, man. So much power. The way you read, man. Might as well be an angel, with that voice–” He catches himself. “And now I’m the one rambling. Sorry, dude.”

“Don’t be.” Dean can feel Castiel’s eyes on him, even as he looks away, embarrassed. “That meant a lot. What you just said. Thank you.”

Dean turns his gaze back to Castiel. Their eyes catch. Possibility glimmers between them, bright as a flame.

“So I don’t suppose you–” Castiel starts.

“Hey, man, you wanna–” Dean says at the same time.

They stop, grin at each other.

Castiel pulls himself together first. “Would you like to read it? On paper?”

Dean takes in a breath, lets it go, and smiles. “Tell me you got a spare copy at your place,” he says, “and I’m there.”


	39. Babysitter AU

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean babysits for late-working businessman Castiel's daughter, Claire.

Castiel comes home from the office at 10:30. He’s stressed and weary, but glad to be home. He sets his briefcase by the door, shrugs off his coat, and heads into the living room. At last, the day is done.

“Claire’s asleep,” says the figure on the couch. “She was awesome. As usual.”

Oh, yes. There’s still this.

Dean Winchester gets up from the couch to face him, and Castiel curses the flame that sears through his gut. “Hello, Dean,” he says, unable to think of anything cleverer to say. This man reduces him to incoherence.

It’s not just that Dean’s handsome, although he is; it’s not just that he’s young and fit, with long limbs and a lanky frame. It’s something about his attitude that gets under Castiel’s skin. The way he seems to always be having too good a time. It speaks to Castiel of the sort of experiences he’s never had yet, and, if he dares to dream, experiences he could have with someone like Dean in his life. But fatherhood is a heavy burden, and Castiel’s become good at stepping on those dreams, crushing them underfoot and kicking them aside in favor of reality. He’d trade everything and anything for Claire, her safety and happiness. Just, sometimes he wishes he didn’t have to.

Dean takes a few easy strides, grinning, and comes just an inch too far into Castiel’s personal space. “You have an okay night?” he says. “Looks like you could use a drink.”

The words don’t even register. Castiel’s too busy trying to find a way not to stare into Dean’s eyes. He fumbles for his wallet. “How much do I owe you?” he mumbles.

“A drink,” Dean replies readily. 

Castiel rolls his eyes. “Besides that.”

“I’m serious,” Dean says. “You owe me a drink. I’m not sweating the money. Give me a little company instead.”

Castiel can’t help but meet his eyes now, try to read him. Dean’s smile is wide and easy, and he’s leaning in, his shoulders angled toward Castiel. Castiel’s not the best with body language, but this signifies undeniable interest, and after all the nights of staring and wanting he’s not sure how to handle this change of heart.

“You _are_ 21, right?” he asks lamely.

“ _Yes_ , I’m 21. Do you want to see my license?” He raises his eyebrows, and mirth twinkles in his eyes.

Castiel’s resolve fails. “I have some beers in the fridge.”

“I thought you’d be a wine kind of guy,” Dean calls after him as he heads to the kitchen. He’s too busy coaching himself to notice. _Don’t make this more than it is, it’s just a drink, he’s a college kid, fifteen years younger than you, stop thinking dirty thoughts…_

But then, as he hands the beer to Dean, their fingers touch, and Castiel’s hit with the image of leaning Dean back onto the couch and tasting beer on his breath, and he has to swallow hard.

They settle on the sofa. Dean asks about Castiel’s work (boring) and Castiel asks about Dean’s classes (too much memorization). The whole time, Castiel has to stop himself from staring at the sprawl of Dean’s legs or the way his mouth purses around the bottle. One beer yields to another, and this time Dean gets up to get it. Castiel can’t help watching him as he walks away, seeing the way he strides, the shift of his hips. His fingers itch.

By halfway through the second beer, they’re both nice and relaxed. Dean leans back and wrinkles his brow in a frown. “You know,” he says, “you could probably pay a high school kid to babysit Claire for half what you pay me. So I gotta wonder, why do you keep hiring me?” 

Castiel tries hard not to flush. “I hire you,” he says carefully, “because you’re studying elementary education, and I appreciate the help you can give Claire in addition to looking after her.”

“It’s not like Claire needs lots of help,” Dean says. “She’s a smart kid.”

“Yes, she is.” This time Castiel lets himself flush, but out of pride. He takes a swig of beer, feeling vaguely heady. “But let me ask you a question. I may pay you well, but not as well as other jobs would. Why do you keep accepting?”

“Heh.” Dean hefts the beer bottle from one hand to the other. “There’s a couple answers to that question. One, I like the kid.”

“Of course.” 

“Two, I like the hands-on work. Not literally, obviously. But spending time with kids is what I want to do, so it’s nice to actually do it once in a while instead of memorizing some dead guy’s theory of child development.”

Castiel nods. “That makes sense.”

“Three–” And Dean stops, smirking slightly and shaking his head. “Hey, can I call you Cas? Castiel’s long, and it feels dumb to call you Mr. Novak if we’re having drinks together.”

Castiel really should nip this in the bud. Dean _should_ be calling him Mr. Novak. And they definitely shouldn’t be having drinks together. Still, all he can do is curse his bad judgment and nod. 

The smirk spreads across Dean’s face like wildfire. “Great. Cas.” He drains his beer and sets it on a side table. 

Fidgeting, Castiel takes another swallow himself. Maybe he can divert the conversation. “You were saying why you enjoy looking after Claire.”

“I was saying,” Dean corrects, “why I keep taking the job.“ He leans in again, like he did before, only now they’re sitting on the couch together and it feels even more intimate. “What can I say? I like Claire, I like the work… and I like her dad.”

Now Castiel can’t keep the flush from enveloping his face. “That’s very kind of you,” he says. His inner coach keeps yelling at him. _He doesn’t mean it like that. And even if he did, this is a very bad idea._

“Cas.” Dean’s not smiling anymore. He’s dead serious.  “You know I’m not just being nice.”

His face is too intense. Castiel looks down, and notices Dean has one hand clenched into a fist. “Dean,” he starts, but can’t find the rest of the words he needs.

“Look,” Dean says. “I don’t want to screw anything up here. But I had to say something. Go ahead and tell me you’re straight and I swear I won’t say another word.”

“That’s not the problem,” Castiel manages. “You’re…” His eyes sweep over Dean. “You’re a kid. You’re 21.”

“22, actually. And so what?” Dean scoots closer on the couch. “Cas. I’m pretty sure I saw you looking. I’m trying to tell you, I’ve been looking too. Question is, you want to keep just looking for the rest of your life?”

Castiel swallows hard. He’s sure his face would shame tomatoes everywhere. “This is a very bad idea.” He echoes his inner voice, dumbly, but neither it nor he is unable to articulate anything more.

“Maybe it is,” Dean says, smiling. He presses his palm onto Castiel’s free hand. The warmth is almost unbearable. “Why don’t we find out?”

There must be a thousand answers to that question. A thousand, but Castiel’s having trouble thinking of just one. His rational mind is eclipsed by the feel of Dean’s hand on his, the proximity of his body as he eases himself so close to Castiel that their shoulders and arms touch. A kiss would be just a lean-in away. 

“I don’t understand,” Castiel says. “You’re in college. There are so many places you could find–” It’s too embarrassing for him to say the word. “Why me?”

Dean beams at him. “You kidding?” he says. “You’re this mature, solid guy who loves his daughter to death and works hard for her. What’s not hot about that?”

“Everything,” Castiel says bluntly. “I’m… I’m too serious for–”

“Maybe I think it’d be fun to loosen you up,” Dean says with a wink. “The tightest wound people have the best time, once they relax. So relax.” His hand travels up Castiel’s arm to his shoulder. Castiel closes his eyes briefly, trying to control his wildly hammering heart.

Dean’s voice cuts through the darkness. “Cas,” he says, and that nickname in his voice is enough to set Castiel’s blood pumping anew. “Look, I’m running out of words here. Throw me a bone. Give me something.”

Castiel’s finding it hard to breathe. He opens his eyes and watches, helplessly, as his hands rise to cup Dean’s face. The scratch of stubble on his palms sends a shiver through him. “Dean,” he starts, “I can’t–”

but oh, yes he can. The contact has killed his last objection. Dean’s face is too warm and too close. Castiel closes the gap between their mouths with frantic desperation.

Dean makes a soft, low noise into the kiss, then presses forward, wrapping his arms around Castiel. Castiel inhales the scent of him, soaks up the feel of his fingertips where they touch the back of Castiel’s neck. Every cell in his body screams _yes_ , and he kisses Dean harder, opening his mouth to lick at his lips. When Dean’s tongue licks at his, a bolt of fire plunges down his spine. He has to fight the urge to push Dean down on the couch beneath him. 

They break the kiss. Castiel’s panting. Dean’s flushed. 

“Maybe,” Castiel murmurs, “maybe it’s time I had some bad ideas.”


	40. Wing!porn (without any actual porn)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Castiel's wings are damaged, and they need some care.

Castiel leans heavily against the back of Dean’s door. All the air seems to go out of him in a rush. Dean sits on the bed, blinking, and stares at him.

“Dude,” he says, finally. “Smile. You got your grace back. You’re in full angel mode now. Why do you look like someone ran over a puppy?”

“It’s not that simple,” Castiel says. He’d asked Dean if he could come in, talk to him privately. But now that he’s here, the words don’t seem to want to come.

“What do you mean, not that simple?” Dean asks. “It’s your grace, right? I mean, you didn’t make off with some other angel’s…”

“No.” Castiel shakes his head firmly. “It’s my grace. There’s no doubt about it. But my grace has been through a lot, Dean. It’s… not all it was.”

“What does that mean?” Dean gets up from the bed now and crosses the room toward him. “You lost some mojo? Look, if there’s stuff you can’t do now–”

“That’s not the problem.” Dean’s proximity is shaking loose some of the stuck words. “Although I probably will be keeping the car now. My ability to travel has been limited.”

“What, did your wings get cut off?” Dean’s voice is cheerful, but the grin on his face falls right off when Castiel meets his eyes. “Wait, *did* they?”

“No,” Castiel admits, “but they are heavily damaged.”

“Damaged how?”

“That,” he says, “I think I have to show you.”

His wings unfurl slowly in the small room. Before, they would have been lush, filling the room with the rustle of feathers. Now, they are weak, skeletal. Castiel cringes with shame even as he allows them to unfold. It’s like being naked, even worse than being human. Not even the rotting corpses of angels have wings this decrepit. He’s more loathsome than a dead man.

Dean is quiet for a long time. He just stares, taking in the sight. Castiel is ready to prod him to say something, anything when he finally speaks. “Man,” he says, and lets out a sigh. “Man, that’s rough.”

Castiel winces. The words hit him like a condemnation, and, ashamed, he begins to curl his wings inward again, shying away from this awful exposure.

“Wait,” Dean says. “Don’t. Leave them out.”

“Dean,” Castiel says, a plea in a single word.

“Leave them,” Dean says. “OK, come on, Cas, They’re a little the worse for wear, but they’re still wings. Maybe they just need a little–” He shrugs. “A little sprucing up.”

Castiel chews on this for a second. His brow furrows and he shakes his head. “Dean, they’re wings, not… whatever you’re thinking. They can’t be duct taped back together.”

“No, I can see that,” Dean says, his eyes roving over Castiel’s wingspan in a way that makes Castiel want to lock himself in the closet and never come out. “But they’re part of you, right? We can at least clean them up a bit. What do you use, shampoo?”

“Use?” Dean’s train of thought has left Castiel several stations back.

“Sure. We’ve got that room downstairs with the sinks in it, right? We’ll wash ‘em down, tidy 'em up a bit. Come on.”

Dean’s at the door now, and he’s smiling and beckoning. It’s far too hard to say no to that.

* * *

The “room with the sinks,” as Dean calls it, is a cavernous chamber big enough to fit several full-sized cars. Dean says he doesn’t know if the bunker used to have a garage, but if they did this was it. He can’t figure out how they’d get cars in or out, though.

All this Dean tells him cheerfully while filling up a large bucket with water. The bucket’s just one of several items he’s burgled from various rooms on their way down here, while Castiel watched him with wary eyes. Dean dumped them all beside one of the large sinks as soon as they got here, and dragged out a tall stool for Castiel to sit on. “Take off your shirt, man,” he ordered, then turned to fill up the bucket.

Which leads to Castiel sitting here, shirtless, shivering a little and looking around at the mysterious space. His wings are out, but curled into the center of his back, and he feels small and naked and alone but for the sound of Dean at the sink. He reaches out to the atoms in the walls, to the ground beneath the concrete floor, just to maintain connection to something.

Dean’s whistling as he returns with a full bucket of water. He settles behind Castiel, meaning Castiel can’t see exactly what he’s doing. Something with a sponge and a bottle, and something again with a big brush that looks like it’s meant for horses.

“Awright,” Dean says, “brace yourself.”

“For wha–” Castiel’s mouth is still wide open when the water comes down on him. Dean’s emptied half the bucket over his head, spraying his face and body and wings with cold wetness. Castiel sputters and shakes like a dog, trying to rid himself of the sensation.

“Sorry, sorry,” Dean says. “Wings out now. C'mon.” He runs his hand along the top ridge of one, and Castiel takes in a sharp breath at the feel of a human hand there. He’s never experienced that before, and he’s not sure how to categorize the feeling. But he obeys, unfurling his wings and trying not to imagine what they must look like drenched as well as decrepit.

“OK, I’m just gonna soap them down now. Stay still,” Dean orders. Castiel braces himself to do just that, but when the rough surface of the sponge touches the space where back meets wing, he curses and shakes hard, nearly throwing Dean off his feet.

“That *hurt*,” he manages as Dean takes in a breath and approaches again.

“Sorry. I’ll be more careful.” This time the sponge is much more gentle, and Castiel’s able to relax into it. Dean works at his wings vigorously, steadily, and he starts whistling again halfway through. Castiel’s wings are heavy with soap and suds, but his heart is light. The guy who’s whistling right now doesn’t sound like a man tortured by the Mark of Cain, and maybe it’s worth it to show his dilapidated wings if cleaning him up gives Dean a bit of distraction from his own situation.

Another splash of water, and Castiel watches beneath him as suds and water and dead feathers swirl toward a drain in the floor. “Heh,” says Dean as he steps back and surveys his work. “That’s not bad, though you still look kind of scraggly. I’m gonna try to brush you out.”

Castiel expects the bristles to be scratchy and rough, but the movement of the brush actually soothes, and he does feel more composed, more put together as Dean works to brush his feathers into alignment. He can feel them drying, and when he curls one wing forward to have a look he’s surprised at how plush and full the feathers look, as sparse as they are. This was a good idea after all. He closes his eyes and breathes to the rhythm of the brushstrokes.

“How you feeling, man?” Dean says in a low voice. He sounds far closer than Castiel had assumed him to be.

Castiel makes a grunt of assent and nods his head. He decides he could let Dean brush his wings for a long, long time.

Then he feels that unfamiliar sensation again, the one he can’t describe, and realizes that Dean is now running his fingers down Castiel’s wings. Stroking them, carding his fingers through the feathers. A whole host of indescribable sensations flutter through him. He bites his lip to avoid making noise. He’s afraid that any sound from him will cause Dean to stop, and he doesn’t want Dean to stop. Not for an instant.

“Weird,” Dean breathes, again so close Castiel can feel the mist of his breath. “I didn’t think I could touch these, you know? I thought they weren’t real. Not *real* real. But here they are. I know they’re not as– as impressive as you’re used to, I guess. But they’re pretty awesome, even now.”

Castiel has never thought of his wings as “awesome” before. If he did, he certainly wouldn’t think of them as such now. But when Dean says it, he wants to believe it’s true.

“Thank you,” he says. “This was–” And helpful seems the wrong word, although it was very helpful. The only other word he can think of is “awesome,” which he can’t imagine saying out loud. So he shakes his head, and just says, again, “Thank you.”

Dean’s fingers on his wings pause. Castiel hears a little chuckle, then, “No problem.”


	41. you live...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After Claire leaves to go to Jody's, Dean and Cas talk.

After Claire leaves, they go inside for a drink. It’s an old, familiar pattern they fall into, easy as anything – the three of them joking around, Castiel bemoaning his inability to get drunk, Sam laughing as Dean looks balefully at his empty beer, the works.  Sam, Dean and Cas. Brothers. Family.

Brothers. Dean knows the word well. For a decade now, Sam’s been his only living family. And though he remembers having a father, remembers for a short time having something like a son, those experiences are in his past, and they might as well have come from another lifetime. Now, the only relationships he know are sibling ones. Sam, and Charlie, and Cas. At least, Cas should fit in that slot. But Dean’s not so sure he does.

For a while today, he thought he knew a bit about what it was like to have a daughter. And maybe that’s where Cas fits. He’s awkward, he’s bumbling, he’s always sort of just learning how to be a human. Maybe he’s a kind of overgrown son to Dean. But that doesn’t fit quite right, either. Not for the guy who dragged him out of hell, who’s saved him and cured him and lifted him up when he could only see the blackness below.

Anyway, not that it matters. Dean pushes it out of his mind and stares up at the moon. It’s full and low, bobbing just atop the highest branch of a nearby tree. Like an owl, silently nodding hello at him. Dean nods hello back.

“Mind if I join you?”

The voice is so gentle and tempered Dean has to look twice to make sure it’s really Cas. But there he is, trenchcoat and blue eyes, and Dean gestures to the empty space next to him on the bench. Castiel sits down, folds his hands loosely between his knees, and gazes unspeaking up at the moon for a time.

“I miss her,” he says finally.

Dean gives a noise of assent.

“I shouldn’t miss her,” Castiel goes on. “She’s only been gone a few hours. And it’s not as though we spent a lot of time together. Even when we did, it wasn’t all friendly. Like you said, she looked at me and saw something she’d lost. But still. I find myself worrying about her. Hoping she’ll be all right.”

“She will,” Dean says. “Jody will take good care of her, man. You don’t have to worry.”

“It’s not all worry,” Castiel responds, glancing down at his hands. “I’m also… extremely grateful for the time we did have together. Adversarial as some of it was.  And I wish there was more of it. I would like to see her grow up. To protect her. Even though she’s made it clear she can protect herself.” He laughs, the side of his mouth quirking. “It’s strange, this feeling.”

Dean shrugs. “Sounds like love to me.”

“Love?” Castiel tilts his head. “I didn’t think that kind of attachment could form so quickly. Or so irrationally.”

“Dude.” Dean smiles. “I think that’s the only way it does happen.”

Castiel takes in a long breath. “Maybe. I had thought I understood that word, better than any other angel. I might need to reassess.”

“Love isn’t like riding a bike, you know,” Dean says. “You don’t suddenly get the knack and then you know it. It’s something you keep learning more about, the longer you live.”

“I see.” Castiel drags the words out. “You live, you love… you learn?”

The philosophical bent of the conversation is starting to make Dean nervous. “Anyway,” he blusters, “the point is, I get it. You miss her. You worry about her. That’s okay.”

“I miss you too, Dean. When you’re not around.”

Dean’s heart slams into his ribs, and a deep warning bell sounds within him. “Yeah,” he says quickly, “yeah, same here. We worry about you when you’re out flying solo. Hope you’re taking care of yourself.”

“‘We,’” Castiel echoes. “You mean Sam and you.”

Dean blinks. “What else would I mean?”

“Nothing. It caught me off-guard. I miss the two of you, of course. And care about you both. But I wasn’t… I was speaking specifically of you, Dean. I miss you. As an individual.”

“Cas.” Dean can feel the conversation turning into a freight train, and he’s eager to slam on the brakes.

“You and I have been through a lot together,” Castiel muses, either not noticing or not caring about Dean’s discomfort. “And I’m grateful for those experiences. Much as I’m grateful for the time I spent with Claire. That’s the parallel I’m trying to draw here.”

Relief floods Dean’s system. “Oh,” he says dumbly. “So I’m like Claire. I get it.”

But Castiel is frowning. “No,” he says. “No, that’s not right. You’re not like her. You’re different.”

“Like a brother,” Dean offers hopefully.

“Yes,” Castiel says, and then, “No. Sam is like a brother. You’re something else.”

And for an instant Dean is caught in Castiel’s eyes, and he loses his breath. The warning bell is fading into the distance, but it still sends jarring notes through his body, and he tries in vain to shake himself out of this paralysis. He’s stuck, staring at Cas, afraid of the truth that seems on the verge of dropping into view.

“I don’t mean to alarm you,” Castiel says, maybe seeing the panic in Dean’s eyes. “I know you’re not comfortable expressing feelings–”

“No, no, man, it’s cool,” Dean says, hoping Castiel can’t hear the hammering of his heart. “I appreciate it. Thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” Castiel answers automatically. The frown that had dropped off his face now returns. “Strange. That should be enough. But it’s not.”

“What’s not enough?” Dean asks, though he knows he shouldn’t.

“'Thank you.’” Castiel looks just as lost as Dean feels. “It would have been enough for me had Sam said it. But there’s something more I want. I don’t know what it is.”

Dean is afraid he does know. He tries to regulate his breathing. “I don’t know what to tell you, dude.”

“Claire hugged me. Maybe that–?”

“Dude, no.”

“No,” Castiel echoes. “Of course not.”

But the disappointment that passes over his face stabs through Dean keen as any knife, and somehow that’s now worse than any embarrassment or uncertainty. “What the hell, man,” he says, sighing, and slides an arm around Cas’s shoulder, pulling him in with his other hand. Castiel stiffens in his grasp, then hands touch his back and a head tucks into his shoulder.

This is the part where Dean should clap his back with one hand, all masculine and easy, and then let go. But he’s not. He’s holding on, trying to preserve the closeness for as long as he can, and Castiel’s clinging to him, pressing into him just as urgently. His heart lurches, and even when he closes his eyes, he can’t help but see the truth.

Castiel isn’t a brother, he isn’t a son. He’s something else entirely, something Dean’s barely known in his life. But he knows it now, with crushing certainty.

Cas was right. You live, you love… you learn.

Dean pulls back, looks Castiel in the eyes for a moment, then leans in and touches his lips to Castiel’s in a brief, chaste kiss.

Castiel’s lips are soft beneath his, soft as they pull away, and they glisten a little in the moonlight as Castiel stares at him with wide eyes. “Dean?” he manages.

Dean presses their foreheads together. “We don’t tell Sam about this,” he says, his voice guttural and gentle. “Not yet.”

Castiel just blinks at him. Dean kisses him once more,  then settles back against the bench, one arm still slung around him. Together, they smile up at the rising moon.


	42. You're going to do it.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Second person Cas/Dean smutlike product.

You’ve put it off far too long, so you’re finally going to do it. The next time you see him, you’re going to touch him.

You’ll wait for the right moment. You’ll be alone together. You’ll talk. You’ll relate. He’ll make a joke you don’t understand, and laugh at it himself. That’s when you’ll get close. The smile will roll off his face, and he’ll say “Cas,” and then “what?” And then, you touch him.

On the face first. Gently. So he thinks you’re just trying to be friendly, and misunderstanding the gesture.

He won’t misunderstand it when you kiss him, though.

He’ll forget to speak for a minute, and when he finally finds his tongue, you’ll cut him off, say his name low and charged, and kiss him again. You’ll stroke the words off his tongue then, with yours, and he’ll taste how much you want him.

(But what if he doesn’t?)

But he will, and his arms will go around you, pulling you close so your bodies speak to each other. He’s wanted you too, all this time, his body says. Feel the way he grows hard against your thigh, the way his hips start cresting into yours in waves.  You’ll grow delirious with the knowledge of it, with the sureness of what’s always been an uncertain “if” in your mind. No more ifs. Just this touch, just now.

Your legs will stop being able to hold you, and you’ll sink, his arms strong as they guide you down. But you don’t want to lie beneath him, not when you’ve dreamed this long and this hard about touching  him. You move your lips to his neck, his ear, and he clutches you tight, moaning, as you settle beside him, then on top of him. He’ll look up at you, eyes blown wide open with surprise and desire, and you’ll slide a hand up under his shirt and ask permission.

He’ll stutter, “Y-yeah.”

(But what if he says no?)

His skin will be warm and pink and hard under your fumbling fingers, and his shirt will take too long to get off. But it’s all worth it for the first feel of his chest under your mouth. You’ll work your way down, sucking little red brands into his skin and stopping only to lick one hard nipple until his hips buck powerfully underneath you and he cries out your name. Your cock is fat and hard, throbbing, and you drag it against his thigh as you work your way down to his waist, a low growl rising from  your throat. But you can wait. You’re determined to touch him and taste him today, and as your anxious fingers work at his belt, your mouth is watering already.

He tries to make conversation as you work at shucking down his pants. “Cas, I gotta say, I didn’t see this comin–”

“Shh,” you’ll say. “Let me.” And when you part his boxers and ease out his cock, running a smooth hand over it, he’ll give up the idea of chatting.

(But what if he shakes you off? What if he’s disgusted?)

He’ll taste warm and sweet under your tongue, all flesh and blood and want, and he’ll pant as you mouth around the head of his cock. One of his hands will catch in your hair and tug, and he’ll push you down further so he can feel the warmth of your mouth around more of him. You’ll tongue along his shaft and reach a hand down to cup his balls, and he’ll shudder hard, biting his lip to keep from shouting as he starts to fuck your face in earnest. It won’t be long before he can’t hold back the shout, though. You’ll work him to a violent shudder of an orgasm, bring him so far over the cliff he feels like he’s flying.

And afterward, he’ll pull you up, gasping and grinning, and he’ll be the one to kiss you then. And everything will be new and gleaming, and you’ll finally be home.

(But what if he doesn’t?)

(But what if none of it happens?)

(What if he recoils at that very first touch?)

 

 

Time passes. You see him. You hesitate. You doubt. The timing isn’t right. There are too many what-ifs. You don’t trust them, you don’t trust yourself.

But you’ve put it off far too long…


	43. Eternity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Castiel ponders eternity.

Eternity is a long time.

Castiel never thought so; he’s lived already for millennia, and the years flew by as he performed his duties, watching and protecting, waiting and yearning. His life’s work traveled the scope of years, centuries – a day at the office for him could mean the dawning of a new age in the world of man. He could only imagine being so tiny, such a brief flicker of existence, that you see only one age at a time, and the rest are delegated to history books or wild speculation of the future. The universe moves in great arcs, and humans are ants scuttling along one curve, unable to see the framework’s beauty. He pitied humans for their limits; what must it be like to have so little time that you must stoop to treasuring seconds – moments that slip away as soon as they arrive? 

Now, he looks back and laughs at his own blindness. The seconds, he knows now, are not just building blocks to build the great arcs of time. It’s time that exists for the sake of those seconds – the ticks of the clock between which everything important happens. Decisions are made in a moment, and decisions drive everything. Ideas leap to minds, lives are lost or fortunes won, and brothers protect or destroy each other in a matter of seconds, not years. He’s seen so many of those crucial moments now that he can never go back to viewing life the way he did before.

Of course, he has one person to thank for that. One person who taught him that the moment you bite into a burger, the shock-warmth of contact from a hand laying on your shoulder, the instant the gun fires– those are the essence of life. Dean Winchester taught him to live for every moment, to see what was right in front of him instead of gazing at the horizon of years. It’s been a life-altering lesson: the power of seconds.

And here he lies, a victim of another crucial second. Beside him vibrates a dagger, stuck into a book, that could have ended him. Castiel is vibrating too, with panic and fear and pain. And hope, a little, because the decision was made, in that moment, to spare his life. That must mean there’s still time. He can still pull Dean back from the brink. That deciding moment is yet to come, even though it feels right now as though all is lost.

Thank goodness for that. Because for a while there, Castiel was again looking down the barrel of centuries. Centuries where once again, nothing from day to day mattered anymore. Without Dean there, alive and vibrant and beside him, there would be no meaning to the moments of Castiel’s life. He’d be stuck in the gears of eternity, not dead but barely alive, just witnessing the atrocity of a broken universe.

And eternity is a long time.

Castiel is guilty of wondering, sometimes, what it would be like if Dean were, like him, immortal. If they had all the time in the world to exist, without aging, without fearing the inevitable grasp of death. But immortal or no, a Dean lost to the mark of Cain would be worse than no Dean at all. And Castiel won’t live the centuries as witness to that. He’d sooner slit his own throat and scatter his grace to the wind.

He gets up. Pain stabs through him in lightning bursts, but he ignores it. There’s a chance of getting Dean back, and Castiel will be damned if he doesn’t take it. Whichever way it goes, he knows, he’ll be there when the moment finally comes.


	44. Cuddling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> rieraclaelin asked:  
> Destiel. Cuddling. Sweet, loveable, giggly cuddling!

Sunday morning and though there’s no sunlight in the bunker, the sensation of morning still comes, through circadian rhythms or maybe the scent of eggs floating down the hall from the kitchen. Either way, Dean’s awake, and Castiel is in his arms, a long stretch of warm humanity all tangled up with him like it was made just for that purpose. There’s not a part of him that doesn’t feel frigging perfect – not his arms, warm around Dean’s waist; not the rise and fall of his breathing; not even his feet, a little cold as they press against Dean’s ankles. Dean inhales, trying to process how something this right, this perfect, could have happened to him.

He kisses a soft patch of skin on Castiel’s neck, working his way down to his shoulder. “Baby,” he murmurs.

Castiel makes a muttering noise, indistinct.

Dean chuckles. “C’mon. Wake up.”

Slowly, Castiel lifts his head. His eyes are bleary as they open. “Dean,” he says, as though he’s surprised to find him there. “What time is it.”

His lips are pursed and gorgeous, and Dean kisses them lightly. “Sam’s-making-breakfast-time. Get up or I’m going to eat it all.”

“Won’t let you.” There’s a little edge to Castiel’s voice, and his arms tighten around Dean’s waist. “Stay in bed.”

Dean can’t help but laugh. He can’t help but kiss Castiel’s face, either. “Tempting, but unlike you, I actually need to eat.” Castiel groans in protest. “What are you doing, acting all sleepy? You don’t need to sleep.”

“Don’t need to,” Castiel agrees, nuzzling into Dean’s shoulder. “But… feels good.”

Dean runs a hand up his back. “Yeah,” he agrees, “can’t deny that. OK, five more minutes. But only five.”

“Five,” Castiel agrees, and his body goes slack against Dean’s again.

Dean smiles and closes his eyes. He may not know how he got this lucky, but he’ll be damned if he ever lets it go.


	45. Surprise marriage proposal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> rieraclaelin asked:  
> May I ask another prompt? If so... umm... Destiel, surprise marriage proposal?

It happens under a starry sky. Dean has always associated starry skies with Sam, of course. For years they’ve been stopping under those skies, staring upward, being together. He was a little reluctant to open that up to someone else – it’s taken time to open himself up at all, enough to learn to love Cas and be loved in return, to realize he can share his life with another and still be a faithful brother to Sam. Some things, like stargazing, still seem like sacred territory. But what can he do? He’s here with Cas, there’s a sky full of stars, the Milky Way sprawling out like a pinup on the blackness, and he can’t not stare. And neither can Cas, it seems – angel though he is, his eyes are wide, drinking in the expanse as hungrily as a child. Dean glances at him and smiles.

“It’s something, huh?” he says, just by way of making conversation.

Castiel hums his agreement. “So many planets,” he says. “So many possibilities.”

“You can see planets?”

Castiel nods.

“Any little green men?”

“Not yet,” is the answer. “Looking across space is also looking back in time. I see these planets as they were a hundred million years ago. Most of them are just starting out. Some are cold. Lonely, frozen. Others are too hot and toxic to support life. Some are just balls of gas that never caught fire. But some…” He smiles.

Dean looks up again and tries to imagine he can see the planets too, a thousand little balls of possiblity rolling around in the heavens, a galactic game of marbles. “You ever go to any of them?” he asks.

Castiel shakes his head. “All that interested me was here.”

“You ever want to go? You could meet little green men.”

“No, Dean.” Castiel sounds puzzled that he even asked. “Why would I travel so far for the sake of a possiblity? When all I want… when the reality is here.” He pauses. “When you are here.”

Dean looks at Castiel then and forgetes to breathe. Castiel has the pick of a thousand million stars to look at, but he’s staring at Dean right now. Staring as if Dean is the only thing in the universe. Dean feels his heart twinge, and, to avoid enduring that gaze any longer, reaches out and pulls Castiel close, slinging an arm around his shoulder and slotting his own body in behind Cas’s, leaning down to breathe in the scent of him.

“I dunno,” he says. “I’m pretty awesome, but *aliens*, man.”

“What about them?”

Dean frowns. “What do you mean, what about them? You have the chance to meet them. Why the hell would you stay around here?”

Castiel’s response is immediate and sober. “I’ve already told you. Because you are here.”

Dean can’t process this. Castiel says it like it’s simple, cut-and-dry, but the thought of it blows Dean’s mind. “You’d choose me. Over the universe.”

“I already have.”

Squeezing him tight, leaning in to brush his lips along Castiel’s shoulder, Dean tries to wrap his head around this concept. He takes a breath to speak, thinking somehow he’ll be able to fight back, to argue that he’s really not worth all that, that he can’t even be put in the same category as a whole sky full of stars.

What comes out is, “Marry me.”

Now it’s Castiel who stops breathing. “What?”

“Marry me.” Dean’s as surprised as Cas to hear the words, but it doesn’t take long for him to realize he means them. And then it’s easy to continue. “Because when I think about it, Cas… I wouldn’t fly across the galaxy, either. Not if it meant having to say goodbye to you. I… I choose you over the little green men, too. And I want to prove it.”

He feels the even rise and fall of Castiel’s breaths, and he knows by now that means Cas is thinking. His nerves rattle, and he worries now that maybe he’s said the wrong thing. But when Castiel turns in his arms, he’s still looking at Dean like he’s the only thing in the universe.

And when Castiel smiles, there might as well be nothing out there at all.

“So, yeah?” Dean says, prompting.

Castiel nods. “Yeah,” he echoes.

Dean has to bite his lip to keep from grinning so wide it hurts. He leans in and kisses Cas instead, feeling the familiar warm brush of lips on lips, and a galaxy of joy unfolds in his heart, a thousand spinning planets sprawling through his limbs and making his fingers tingle. He pulls Castiel into a tight embrace, holding him fast. “Thanks,” he whispers into Castiel’s ear. “For choosing me.”

“You were the first choice I ever made,” Castiel says. “And I’d choose you again, Dean. Any day. Every day.”

“For the rest of our lives,” Dean replies.

And they do.


	46. A couple of short fics

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1) Castiel and Dean get a dog.   
> 2) Castiel surprises Dean with a kiss.

**verifascinating asked: Dean/Cas, adopting a dog?**

Dean glares at it in the rearview mirror the whole way home. Already it’s shedding all over his seats, he just knows it. This is going to be a disaster.

Why he’s such a freaking doormat whenever Castiel gets excited, Dean doesn’t know. He’d taken him to the rescue place to try to _stop_ him from babbling about how much he wanted a dog. A dose-of-reality type of thing. Look how messy they are. How much they bark, how much they run around. But Cas had squatted by the cage of one particularly bright-faced mutt and had… _talked_ to him. And then he and the dog turned on Dean in unison. Never had the phrase “puppy-dog eyes” been so literal.

So here’s Castiel, apparently holding a conversation with the mutt as Dean drives them home. The dog barks a few times, and Castiel turns to Dean and says, “He promises he’s housebroken.”

Small comfort, that. 

The dog yaps happily at him. “Yeah, yeah,“ Dean says. “You’re cute, I get it. Just no climbing in bed with us at night.”

At that, the dog’s ears droop, and it makes a whining noise. Dean groans. He has the feeling he’s gonna be worn down on that, too. Still, the prospect of a decent game of fetch isn’t so unpleasant. And Castiel’s face when the dog leaps up and licks at his hands – that’s pretty much worth anything the mutt can throw at them. 

And there’s the worst rub of all. Dean’s actually enjoying his own doom.

* * *

Castiel starts it. Dean’s poring over a book of lore in the rebuilt Men of Letters library, and Castiel is passing by with an empty mug of coffee. On his way back to the kitchen to refill it, he drops a light kiss on Dean’s ear.

Dean _freaks out._

His hands come up, and he flails as though a mosquito is buzzing around him. “The hell– the hell was–“ He finally catches sight of Cas. “Was that you? What the hell, man? Don’t freaking scare me like that.”

“I didn’t scare you,” Castiel informs him sternly. “I kissed you.”

“On the _ear_!”

“Well, yes. Was that a problem?”

“You don’t just go around kissing people on the ear when they’re not expecting it!”

Castiel is puzzled. “You don’t usually mind when I kiss you.”

Dean reddens. “Shut up. I’m not talking about that.”

“It’s really that unpleasant?”

“You think you’d like it if you were just sitting there and I come up with out warning and drop one on you like that?”

Now it’s Castiel’s turn to go red in the face. “Y-yes, actually.”

Dean grins evilly. “Oh. _Oh._ I see how it is then.” He rises from the chair.

Castiel backs away a few steps. “Dean. I’m– I’m carrying coffee.”

“Oh, really?” Dean advances on him. “Hope it’s not too hot.”

“Dean…!” But when Dean’s arms go around him, Castiel loses all desire to protest. He can’t help but burrow into the warmth of Dean’s body, pressing his head into Dean’s shoulder. All thoughts of a refill are forgotten, and that coffee cup gets set down on the table very quickly.

And he suspects, when Dean starts mouthing wetly over his ear, that this is a _very_ different kind of kiss than the one he gave Dean a minute ago. But he’s definitely not complaining.


	47. A reunion kiss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Featuring a now-thoroughly-jossed S11 headcanon.

Castiel stays away for a long time. His excuse is that he’s battling the Darkness as fiercely as he can, but Sam and Dean know better. Nobody wants to go back to a place they almost died, at the hands of their best friend least of all. Dean mopes about it for a time, but Sam keeps reminding him, you can’t blame the guy. 

“He knows I was under the influence of the Mark,” Dean says.

“Yeah, but there’s a difference between knowing and _knowing_ ,” Sam says. “Give him time, Dean. He’ll come around. He always has.”

But Cas doesn’t seem to come around. And in a world without sunlight, where innocent people go mad and become killing machines every single day,* it’s hard to keep your hopes up about anything. Nobody’s got the time to heal a broken friendship these days.

So leave it to coincidence to save the day.

Dean and Sam are incapacitating and exorcising their way through a ring of affected, using the new techniques they’ve had to adopt in order to avoid killing half the country. It’s still putting the hurt on people who probably don’t deserve it, but you gotta do something to keep these guys down until a cure can be found. But sometimes there are just too many, and Dean’s about ready to break out the hard stuff. 

“Dean, don’t,” Sam says as he sees Dean grip the knife at his belt. “Come on, you’ve been clean for weeks now.”

“Not seeing another choice here, Sammy,” Dean shoots back as he kicks another poor affected bastard in the chest. Weeks is a long time to go without a kill, even before he had the mark of Cain. He’s proud of it, but he never intended to go cold turkey for keeps. And right about now, mowing some people down would make things a hell of a lot easier. Scowling, elbowing away another affected, he draws his knife.

Then a searing light floods through the room, and the affected all seem to light up from the inside. Dean’s seen that light before, and it takes him a minute to place where. It’s what it looks like when an angel is banished to Heaven. But these guys don’t disappear; they slump to the ground instead, letting out small groans, and then sleep. And behind the pile of bodies is a familiar figure in a trenchcoat.

Dean blinks. “Cas?” He can barely get the word out of his throat.

Castiel surveys the room. “I don’t sense any more,” he says, his usual brusque self. “Is this all of them?”

Sam finds his voice first. “For now, yeah. Good to see you, Cas.”

“Of course. No problem.” Castiel’s looking everywhere but at the two of them – at the ceiling of the room, out the windows, across the pile of unconscious-but-definitely-not-dead affected. “I didn’t realize you were here. I’m sorry for barging in.“

“Are you kidding me? You saved our bacon,” Sam enthuses. Dean shoots a look at him. _Cas doesn’t want to be here. He’s making that clear. Can’t you see that?  
_

“Yes. Well. Nice seeing you.” And Castiel turns to go.

“Wait.” 

Dean says it – no, shouts it, as much as he can shout with the gigantic lump in his throat – and he puts a hand out, as though he could grab onto Castiel’s coat from across the pile of bodies. Castiel stops, turns back halfway. For a moment nothing moves, and Dean can hear his stupid heart thudding in his chest like he’s jogging a marathon. 

Carefully, deliberately, he makes his way around the mess of unconscious and finds his way to where Cas is. “You’re here,” he says lamely. “Hang out a bit.” And now he’s not even listening to his own earlier warning. Has he missed Cas this much? Does he yearn for Cas’s company this badly? When it’s clear Cas doesn’t feel the same way…

He backtracks. “Unless you don’t want to. I… uh, we don’t want to get in your way, looks like you’re fighting the good fight. Sorry.” He takes a step back. 

“Dean, wait,” Castiel says hurriedly. “I’m not…” His voice lowers. “Are you all right?”

“What? Yeah, of course.” Dean forces a smile. “I’m good, Cas, really. I’m not still–” 

“Um, guys?” Sam says. “Why don’t we step outside?”

* * *

Sam’s seeing to the wounded and the terrified, leaving Dean and Castiel standing awkwardly, about a foot apart, next to the car. Dean has about a thousand questions, but he can’t find voice for even one of them. So he starts with some small talk. “So,” he says awkwardly. “That was some serious mojo you laid on those guys back there.”

“Yes.” Castiel looks briefly at his own palms. “It seems my brand of power is effective against this enemy.”

“Which makes sense,” Dean says. “Death told me that God and the angels were what beat back the Darkness before.”

“I wish more of my brethren were interested in fighting this evil,” Castiel says with some concern. “Many of them have taken the attitude that the Earth no longer matters, since the apocalypse was averted. I’ve tried to persuade them, but I’ve been less than successful.”

“Well. It’s good to know you’re out there, at least. Are you taking care of yourself?” Dean keeps the conversation going, but he’s still aware of the beating of his heart, of the weird, fuzzy warmth in the air around them. Has it always been like this? Intense, but weirdly comfortable? Maybe he’s just never noticed it before, because he’s never gone without it for so long.

Castiel nods. “I have. Dean, I…”

“It’s cool, Cas. I know things didn’t go so well last time we met up.”

Castiel huffs a short laugh. “You almost killed me, so.. no, they didn’t.”

It hurts Dean’s heart to hear him say it. “I’d say I’m sorry, Cas, but at some point, it doesn’t seem to mean anything anymore–”

“It does,” Castiel interrupts. “And I’ve long since forgiven you.”

Dean has no idea what to say to that. He stands there and gawks. 

If there’s such a thing as an angelic smile, Castiel has it at that moment. His eyes are soft and full of an emotion Dean doesn’t really understand. But a minute later, when Castiel leans in and kisses him lightly on the lips, he maybe has an inkling.

“I’ve missed you, Dean,” Castiel says. He runs a hand, just once, down the line of Dean’s cheek toward his jaw.

Sam comes back then, with assurances that everyone’s taken care of and they can head back home. He crosses to the passenger side and claps Cas on the shoulder. “You coming?”

“If that’s all right,” Castiel responds, and Dean nods dumbly. He goes to the driver’s side, gets in, and drives the three of them back toward the bunker, listening the whole time to his heart beating out a drum solo and glancing at Castiel in the rear view mirror. He has a thousand new questions, now, but he thinks he’ll like the answers a lot better.

_* This was my season 11 headcanon. Didn't turn out that way, boo._


	48. Dean mourns Charlie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean mourns Charlie. Castiel is there for him.

Castiel finds Dean on the stoop in front of the bunker. It’s raining. Just a light drizzle, but enough to make his hair slick with wetness and cover his face in tiny drops. He wipes it clean as Castiel sits down and grunts a “hey.”

Castiel touches his knee. “I was looking for you.” 

“Something up?” Castiel shakes his head. “Good. I’m not in the mood for a job right now.”

The sorrow etched on Dean’s face is hard to watch. “What’s wrong?”

“Stupidest thing, really,” Dean says. “I was out here earlier, and I remembered, there was this time Charlie was heading out. And we did the old Star Wars bit. ‘I love you.’ ‘I know.’ And I just, uh…” He shakes his head. “Guess I just was missing her.”

Castiel nods. It makes sense. Dean hasn’t had much time, as his whole self, to mourn her loss. 

“You know,” Dean goes on, “I think I’m over it, I’ve dealt with it and moved on. People die in our line of work, it’s crappy, but it happens. But sometimes, I’ll see something, or hear something, and I’ll think, geez, she would have liked this. And then I just feel crappy all over again.”

“Dean.” It’s all Castiel can say. He brushes his fingers against Dean’s hairline, wiping away and errant drop of rain or sweat that’s beaded there.

“One thing about Charlie, though,” Dean says, smiling a little. “She lived balls to the wall, man. Taught you to stand up and be yourself. Do what moves you. I liked that about her. Wish I could live like that.”

“I think we all do,” Castiel says. He’s unsure whether he’s speaking for just him and Dean, or people, or angels… maybe, everyone.

“Probably her fault _this_ happened,” Dean says, taking Castiel’s hand and interlacing their fingers. “Don’t think I’d have had the guts to tell you, ya know.. if she hadn’t pushed me.”

“Same.” Castiel remembers Charlie yelling at him. _I can’t believe you haven’t even made a move yet!_ she’d said. _It’s obvious how you two feel about each other, it has been since, like, book 35. Next time he drives you crazy, just reach out and kiss that dumbass. I promise, you’ll both feel better!_

Dean had been the one to take her advice first, and ever since that first kiss, things have been good. At least, between them. The world has gone to crap, as Dean likes to say, but they have each other.

Castiel leans in, presses his forehead against Dean’s briefly, and closes his eyes. He concentrates on the feeling of Dean’s closeness, the warmth between them. If that’s Charlie’s legacy, he thinks, she’s alive and well with them here, in this moment. His lips touch Dean’s, gently at first, then pressing harder as Dean returns the kiss. Their mouths move together, soft and slow, like dancing. Dean tastes of rain and sorrow, but also love, and Castiel feels answering love surge up inside him. Yes, this is a good thing. Even in sadness, they have found something so good with each other. Charlie would want that.  She would be happy to know that comfort can be found in a kiss.

_It’s about time, bitches,_ she’d say.


	49. Have a little smut.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> PWP

Dean’s mouth is savage as it roams over Castiel’s body. Biting, nipping, teeth grazing over the soft flesh. When Castiel gasps or cries out, Dean just chuckles and begins his assault anew. Staggeringly patient kisses pressed to the inside of Castiel’s arm, tongue dragging down the line of his waist to his hip. Naughty teeth marks in the tenderness of his thigh, just below where Castiel wants him. And then long, sucking pulses of hot wet mouth on Castiel’s balls, the shaft of his cock. Castiel is a feast, and Dean is endlessly hungry. He sinks his teeth in where he can, licks and purses soft lips everywhere else. Castiel’s devoured, taken apart. He grabs at Dean’s hair, tries to pull him back up, but Dean’s hunger can’t be sated.

Dean’s name rises in Castiel’s throat over and over, anxious and desperate and pleading. “Dean,” he says as Dean licks at his nipples, taking the time to tease each, one by one, into rock-hard, sensitive nubs. “Dean,” when a hot mouth assaults his lower back, sucking downward ino the cleft of his ass and licking away the salt sweat there. “Dean!!” as Dean sucks at his neck and ear until Castiel’s a shuddering mess of raw nerves.

It takes a hundred shouts before Dean lifts his head. He’s breathless, too, from exertion and his own desire. “Cas,” he murmurs, voice rough and aching. His hips roll against Castiel’s, and they both grunt in shameless need at the heat that burns through them from that perfect point of contact. And Dean captures Castiel’s lips with his own, thrusts his tongue into Castiel’s mouth, groaning hard and loud. He pulls Castiel tight against him and just ruts against him for a moment, like an animal, uncaring.

But his mouth goes slack on Castiel’s a second later, and there’s tenderness in the kiss that wasn’t there before. For an instant his head’s above water, and the rippling heat between them can yield to a calmer, easier rush of warmth. Their lips part, and Dean holds Castiel’s gaze for a moment. Intensity burns down through his eyes, and Castiel catches his breath at the emotion betrayed there. Then the need boils over again, and Dean’s back to savaging Castiel’s body with a white-hot mouth, making his cries ring out in the small room.


	50. #lovewins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Someone yelled at me for writing this on the day the Supreme Court decision came down. 2,000 other people seemed to like it. I hope it doesn't offend you.

“So,” Dean says, shutting off the TV and turning to Cas, “what state do you want to get married in?”

Castiel looks like someone has flash-frozen him. “Excuse me?”

“We’ve got our pick now,” Dean replies with a shrug. “Pick a state, any state.”

“Dean.” Castiel frowns his I’m-about-to-be-far-too-practical frown. “Leaving aside the fact that you seem to have just proposed to me, you do realize that I technically don’t exist according to the laws of this country. I have no birth certificate, identification papers…”

“You mean you need someone to make you a fake ID?” Dean’s grin is a wicked thing. “Gee, I wonder if I know anybody who does that.”

Castiel does that thing with his jaw that makes him look like a monkey. Dean tries not to laugh. “Yes, because marrying you under a fake name will be so satisfying. It’s not as if we couldn’t have been married before this. There were over thirty states…”

“I wanted to wait until our options were totally open,” Dean says, as though it’s the most obvious impulse in the world. “What if you had a craving to get married in Georgia? Or a cowboy-themed wedding in Texas? We could say ‘yee-haw’ instead of ‘I do.’”

“I don’t see why the state matters.”

“It doesn’t, not really, but, you know.” Dean shifts closer to him on the couch. “Just in case it did, to you.”

Castiel reddens a little as he looks into Dean’s eyes. “Which brings us back to, did you just propose to me?”

Dean just shrugs.

“Why now?” Another shrug. Castiel’s face falls. “You’ve just gotten caught up in the moment. You don’t mean it.” His struggle to hide his disappointment would be comical to watch, if it weren’t so painful.

“Cas.” Dean heaves a sigh, presses closer and winds his arms around Castiel’s waist. “Of course I mean it. You think I haven’t thought about it? How long have we been doing this?” He tries to kiss Castiel’s mouth, but Castiel turns away and he gets a brush of lips on cheek instead. “C’mon, don’t pout. I was just waiting for the right moment.”

“And _this_ is the right moment.” Castiel’s voice is thick with disbelief, though a note of hope is shining in his eyes now.

“Well, why the hell not? Half the country’s celebrating. Why can’t we?” Dean strokes Castiel’s cheek, running a thumb down his jawline. “Think about it. You, me, Sammy as a witness, some run-down old courthouse and an wrinkly judge who thinks we’re both going to hell. It’s perfect.”

A laugh escapes Castiel’s throat. “I can’t deny, that sounds appropriate. But Dean. In all seriousness.” He squeezes Dean’s knee. “Don’t do this if you’re not sure. I don’t want to be one of your regrets.”

This time, when Dean kisses him, Castiel doesn’t turn his head away. And Dean pours into the kiss everything he’s feeling – gentle affection, the elation of the day, that golden feeling he gets every day when he wakes up and realizes he loves and is loved by a man whose courage saved him, whose faith restores him every waking moment. He clasps Castiel’s face in his hands and doesn’t let go, even when their lips have parted.

“No regrets,” he promises. “This is for real.”

Castiel smiles. “Then Kansas.”

“Hm?” 

“Kansas,” Castiel repeats. “Where you were born. Let’s get married there.”

A grin spreads across Dean’s face, so wide it threatens to crack it in half. “Works for me. Let’s go spread the good word.”


	51. A random AU

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I created a random AU list and spun the wheel. I got Nurse!Dean and Survivalist!Cas. This is what ensued.

“I don’t need any help,” Castiel said for the fourteenth time.

“Come on, man,” Dean replied, rolling his eyes. “You’ve been shot. You can’t just stitch that up with a bit of liquor and some dental floss.” He continued to work at the wound carefully, not flinching when Castiel made gritted-teeth noises of pain. 

Castiel was sweating, his long dark hair matted and damp. His fists clutched the table’s edge, white knuckles trembling a little when Dean probed around the sides of the wound. “Shouldn’t you be a doctor?”

“I’m the best you’ve got,” Dean said testily. “Hang on a sec, I’ve almost got it.”

“Damn those soldiers,” Castiel muttered. “They really see us as no more than animals. Before the invasion, I was…”

“No point talking about that now.” Dean did something to the wound that made Castiel growl. “You want a belt or something to bite down on? This is gonna hurt.”

“Are you going to make me scream, Dean?” Castiel asked, his eyes flashing. “Under different circumstances, I’d like that.”

Dean flushed. “Dude. You want this bullet out or not?”

Castiel mumbled something and turned his head away, steeling himself.

Dean sighed and unbuckled his belt. Under different circumstances, he might like doing that too, he thought, with a cursory glance at Castiel’s arms and chest, grown strong and hard through adversity. For now, though, it was merely a matter of survival. He fitted the belt deep into Castiel’s mouth and set to work.


	52. Home is Where the Heart Is

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean & Cas... "coming home."

Castiel stands outside the door to the bunker. His hand is upraised, curled into a fist to knock, but he can’t seem to make contact. _What’s wrong?_ his brain sings to him. _Just knock. They’ll be happy to see you._

But this is a world where the Darkness has exploded into existence and blotted out the sun. A world where anyone or anything could be corrupted. And Castiel himself was corrupted, up until a few hours ago, when he finally broke through Rowena’s programming and escaped. He doesn’t even know if she didn’t let him go on purpose. She could be tailing him even now. He could be delivering her two Winchesters on a silver platter.

How his grace has faded since Metatron ripped it out. How tired he is, even from just flying this far. How blind he feels, without that light illuminating everything around him down to a molecular  understanding. It’s a struggle to use any senses beyond the normal human five, and when he reached out to see the state of the world, it was like diving into fire. The Darkness has touched everything. 

It could have touched them too. There’s no guarantee he won’t be coming home to two monsters, freshly re-made by the corrupting influence of Darkness everywhere…

Coming _home?_ Does he think of this place as his home? He’s barely spent a handful of nights under this roof (such as it is; an underground bunker doesn’t actually have a roof, the pedant in him notes). The saying goes that _home is where the heart is_. Can his heart reside in a place he’s never lived?

No, he has no right to be standing here. He has no right to demand entry. If it were him, he’d keep this door locked tight against the evil that lurks outside. There’s no way of telling, in this new and terrifying world, who’s still a friend and who’s been lost to the neverending night. At least, he thinks that’s what he would do. It’s certainly the smart thing to do.

And in that moment of thought, the door opens.

Dean blinks. He stares. “Cas?”

“It’s me,” Castiel starts, trying to allay any suspicions. “I’m sorry, I should go–”

But in the space of another blink, Dean’s grinning, and then arms are around him. “The hell have you been?” Dean’s voice in his ear, a little wobble in his tone, and Castiel can’t help but close his eyes, can’t help but lift his arms to Dean’s waist and embrace him in return. This. This is what he was missing, this is why he came.

Dean pulls back and holds him at arm’s length. “Sam said he hadn’t seen you since– Geez, man, we worried. Get your ass in here. It’s not safe.”

Castiel should object, should note that there’s no guarantee he hasn’t been corrupted. But as he lets Dean shuttle him into the bunker, he’s stuck on a single thought.

_Home is where the heart is. Home is where_ he _is._


	53. Watching the Perseids

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some stargazing smut.

“There’s one,” Dean says, a grin spreading over his face as the streak of white disappears.

“Yes.” Cas’ grunt is noncommittal.

Dean tilts his head. “Come on, man. This doesn’t excite you even a little bit?”

“It’s the Earth passing through a debris field. We’re watching garbage burn,” Castiel replies flatly. “I’m glad you enjoy it, though.”

“You’re about as romantic as a tin can,” Dean says. “Go back inside if you want, I’m gonna watch the damn shooting stars.”

For a moment, in the darkness, he thinks Cas’ shifting on the blanket means he’s going to just that. But the next moment Castiel’s pressing kisses into his neck, hands working up swift and sure inside his shirt. Dean gasps.

“It’s not as though nothing out here excites me,” Cas growls, and presses his hip against Dean’s to make his point.

There’s a warning on the tip of Dean’s tongue, something about distracting him from the light show, but it’s swallowed fast as Castiel sucks and marks Dean’s neck, as he lifts a hand to caress the growing hardness between his legs. Dean tries to keep his focus in the sky, but it’s all he can do to keep his eyes from rolling up into his head when Castiel begins to knead and stroke, all insistent fingers and warm, wet mouth. He makes a wordless noise and shifts on the blanket, opening himself up, giving Castiel free rein to do whatever he likes.

What he likes, apparently, is to talk. “Astronomy can be very, very interesting, Dean,” he lectures between biting nips at Dean’s collarbone.

“Yeah,” Dean manages between quick breaths, “heavenly bodies, I know.”

“Gravity,” Castiel says, pulling down Dean’s slacks with strong hands. “The attraction between two bodies of significant mass.”

“Attraction– fuck,” Dean spits out when Cas hefts his balls in a careful hand and teases them with his fingers. “Yeah. I get that.”

“And the very specific combination of mass and velocity that leads not to collision–” Castiel squeezes his erection– “but to orbit.” He traces a ring around the head with one finger, then lowers his head and does the same with his tongue. Dean feels his thighs tighten, his hips shudder with the urge to cant upward. He tries to refocus on the sky.

A flood of wetness then, Castiel’s mouth taking him in, first the head, then suckling down further. Fingers clasped around the base. Dean fists the blanket, biting his lip. The air is cold against his chest, and his nipples harden. Without thinking, he reaches up to tease one, sending electric shocks deep into his core. “Unh,” he groans, his concentration shattered. Now all that matters is Castiel’s mouth and hands on him, his fingers on his own nipple, the rolls of heat like waves at high tide that wrack his body. Shooting stars could be flying by in droves and he wouldn’t even notice.

Castiel lifts his mouth briefly; covers the exposed, wet flesh with his hand; and hikes up Dean’s shirt to press a kiss to his flat belly. “Then there’s nuclear fusion and fission,” he says, low. “The constant heat and pressure that turns a simple dwarf star into a supergiant.”

“Who you callin’ a dwarf,” Dean wants to say, and who knows, maybe he gets some of it out, but Castiel’s mouth is back on him again, and this time he’s slipped a hand beneath Dean’s hips to tease between the cheeks of his ass, and Dean’s gritting his teeth and trying not to shout into the night.

His fingers tangle into Castiel’s hair, tugging and stroking by turns, and he can’t help the jerky little thrusts of hip that bring his cock further into the hot suction of Castiel’s mouth. Castiel is so, so very good at this, and Dean doesn’t think he’ll ever get over just how determined he is, how devoted he is to making sure Dean is brought right to the edge of sanity, until he’s almost sobbing as he goes over.

Castiel hums and growls around him, and the vibration soak deep into Dean’s hips, make him break into a flurry of keen whispers– “Cas,” and “please,” and “don’t stop.” The unrelenting, sucking pressure never lets up, and Dean throws his head back. He’s seeing stars now, streaks of white flying through his vision, and he doesn’t know whether they come from above or just below. Doesn’t matter. Whole world’s going white, and Dean lets out a loud cry and arches his back as release breaks over him.

His hands in Castiel’s hair smooth and caress as his orgasm winds down, and Dean whispers now of his own volition, words that come pouring out of him instead of being wrenched from his throat: “God, Cas… so good… you’re so fucking good to me… love you so damn much.”

Castiel kisses and sucks at him devotedly until every drop is gone, then dutifully does up his slacks and settles in next to him on the blanket. “Heavenly bodies,” he repeats wryly as he presses a final kiss to Dean’s jaw.

“And motherfucking supergiants,” Dean says, and tilts his head to catch Castiel’s mouth under his.  After that, Dean stays out for ten more minutes, Castiel snoozing contentedly by his side, and waits for shooting stars. He doesn’t see anything that even begins to compare.


	54. Body worship

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> requested: "body worship & rimming."

If he were to think about it too hard, Dean would feel pretty funny loving Cas’s body as much as he does. After all, it’s not exactly his to start with. And Dean can’t say with any certainty that he felt anything when looking at Jimmy Novak, sans Castiel’s presence, but when it comes to Castiel inhabiting that body Dean wants to cover and conquer and worship it. it’s a good thing Dean doesn’t think too damn hard when he’s in the middle of the act.

Mostly, what he thinks is Cas and hot and skin. As in, Cas’s skin passes too easily past his hands, the smooth of his legs runs out too quickly, Dean needs miles more of it before he can even begin to be satisfied. Castiel once said his true form was the size of the Chrysler building. That might have been just about enough to slake Dean’s thirst, but this perfectly man-sized man is inadequate. Dean needs more to touch, more to hold.

So he goes places he never thought he’d go, kissing down the small of Castiel’s back to his hips and squeezing both cheeks with his hands before parting them slightly. He slides his tongue down into the cleft, hungry, aching to taste every single bit of skin, even where he’d never consider going were he in his right mind, but oh God, he’s not, not even close to sane right now with the desire that roils his body and the anxious press of his tongue. He needs to taste all the dark and secret parts of Castiel too, not just what everyone gets to see, not just what glows clean and bright but what lurks and hides beneath. The taste of Cas beneath him is sharp and sweaty, all musk and man, and Dean licks inside, presses his lips against the edges and stretches, tugs and insists as Castiel makes crescendoing noises beneath him. It’s the best soundtrack, Castiel’s need rising in his voice as Dean works on him, and it’s only a matter of time before Dean has to stop his frenetic exploration long enough to clasp Cas to him and hold him still as Dean pushes into him. Locked together, two parts of a hinge, they groan and move together until the room is full with panting breaths and growing moans.


	55. Beekeeper!Cas, part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mimi asked me to write a story about Dean and his annoying neighbor, the beekeeper.

Bees.

Dear sweet freaking God, BEES.

Everywhere. Swarming. Crawling all over. On the grass, on the plants in the garden, on those weird boxy things, on the shirt and the pants and the weird-ass hat and mask the man in front of him is wearing. The buzzing sound is everywhere. Dean can’t hear himself think. All he wants to do is to swat frantically until the bastards all fly to another state.

Instead, he musters up a lungful of breath. “I need to talk to you.”

“What?” The man in the mask – his neighbor, though a picket fence has kept the two houses separated for years now – cups a gloved hand near his ear. Bees crawl over his fingers and up the side of the mask like they’re trying to find a way in. Dean has the mother of all creeps.

“I said,” Dean shouted, “I need to talk to you. About your bees!”

A pause. “One sec,” the man says. He brushes a few bees off his mask, and they go flying in erratic clouds that venture too close to Dean for his liking. He backs up several steps. The man follows, and thankfully the bees more or less stay put. This guy is a freaking madman, thinks Dean. Who the hell keeps bees in their backyard? In the suburbs? This isn’t the rural heartland. You have neighbors in a place like this. Dean figures the guy must be some eccentric old dude, or an antisocial nerd who prefers insects to people. He can’t be very good at social graces, considering Dean’s never even seen him and he’s been living there for over a year.

Or, Dean realizes in a rush as his neighbor lifts off his mask and hangs it on a hook on the side of the house, he could be absolutely gorgeous.

Dean swallows and stares. This he was not expecting. Not dark hair that looks half-electrified, not eyes that could pierce right through the heart of you. And now he notices the faint bulge of muscles, the sinewy body that had been right in front of him this whole time. When the guy removes his gloves, Dean’s absolutely transfixed by his hands. Long, slender, with fingers that must be capable of so much…

“My name is Castiel,” his neighbor says, holding out a hand to shake. Dean takes it, and he can’t keep from gauging the strength of those beautiful hands, the warmth that bleeds from the palms into his own. He shakes weakly and stutters out his own name, trying to remember who he is and why the hell he’s here in the first place.

“Dean,” the man repeats. “It’s very nice to meet you. I’m surprised you knew to find me out here.”

Bees. Oh, God, that’s right. Bees.  "You weren’t answering your door. I followed the buzz,“ Dean says. He points to the picket fence. "I’m your neighbor. Right over there.”

“Ah!” Castiel’s face lights up. “So I see. Pardon me. I’m not good at getting to know my neighbors. I tend to keep to myself when I’m not working, you see.”

“Oh. And what do you do?” Why are you asking him this, Winchester? You’re here about the bees. The bees! Not to make small talk!

“I work at University Hospital.”

“Hm. Doctor?”

“Nurse, actually. I spend a lot of time caring for people. It makes one treasure one’s privacy.”

Dean gestures toward the boxy things – it looks like a chest of drawers, just flimsy, and covered in bugs. “Looks like you’ve made some friends.”

“Ah, yes.” Castiel gives a little smile, crooked and cute. Dean tries to keep his heart from doing a backflip in his chest. “They’re a hobby of mine. Something I’ve always wanted to try.”

“A hobby.” Now Dean remembers himself. He crosses his arms over his chest. “Your hobby’s been visiting me.”

Castiel looks him over for a minute, and Dean gives him the best dagger-stare he can muster. God, he doesn’t want to hate this guy’s guts. Not when his outsides are so damn nice. But bees are bees. He sticks one leg out, pulls up the jeans around his ankle to show the mark. Castiel stares at it, then up at Dean’s face. Slowly, his mouth and eyes go round with horror.

“Oh, no,” he says. “I didn’t – they’re Russian bees, I chose them because of the coloring – the website said they were harder to manage, but I didn’t – I didn’t realize.”

“Yeah.” Dean lowers his pants leg. “Not the nicest guys. Don’t you have to get some kind of permit?”

Castiel’s eyes are still huge unblinking O’s. “No,” he says, “I didn’t think it mattered because the fence… I’m so sorry.” He runs a hand through his hair. It ruffles and stands up straight at the touch. “I don’t know what to do. I can try to ship them back, but I don’t know how many have already wandered.”

Dean’s spirit sinks a little at that. He’d meant to come over and give the guy a piece of his mind, but to make him give up his hobby? Something he’d dreamed of all his life? Dean isn’t that heartless. Not to mention that would absolutely shoot to hell any chance he might ever have with this guy, his good-looking neighbor with the weird name and the weird hobbies and the blue eyes that are bigger than any Dean had ever seen outside a cartoon. Seriously, they’re about to bug out of his head.

“Look,” he says, relenting a little, “nobody’s saying you have to send them back. Just… is there a way to contain them? I could try to build you a porch for them or something. Like a frame with wiring or something to keep them in. Hell, we could build it around your garden.” The image is coming to him now – an enclosure, no ceiling even, just a simple frame that would make it a little harder for the bees to get out. He has no idea if it would work, but it could, and that makes it worth a try in Dean’s book.

“Dean, was it?” Castiel shakes his head. “That’s very nice of you, Dean, but I can’t afford–”

“Hey, I didn’t say I’d charge you!” Now Dean’s excited about the idea, and he’s not keen to see it shot down in flames. “Materials can’t be much, and I need a hands-on project. Something to keep me busy. When my brother was around we used to work on old cars together. He went off to get his master’s now and I’m stuck here alone, and my home don’t need any more improvin’.” He shoots Castiel his best smile. “What do you say? Worst that happens, you get a fence around your garden to keep the other critters out, even if the bees slip through.”

Castiel’s face softens. “You’d have to work around the bees.”

“Well.” Dean gulps. “Maybe I’ll get used to them.”

“The key is not to make any sudden movements. Did you try to swat them away? When they came into your yard.”

“M-maybe.” Dean had freaked out completely and tried to bat at them with a rolled-up newspaper, but Castiel doesn’t need to know that.

“See, you have to stand very still – hold on.” Castiel has gone a little rigid himself, his back straightening. He looks taller, more imposing, like this. Like a military man. Dean wonders if he should salute.

Then he hears the buzzing, and he goes all stiff himself.

The bee has wandered off of one of Castiel’s gloves, and it’s now flying in small circles near Dean’s shoulder. Dean eyes it, not daring to move an inch. “That’s it,” Castiel says. “Just stay still.” He reaches for a glove.

A moment later, the bee decides Dean’s cheek is a perfect place to land.

Now it’s Dean’s eyes that are going to bug out. He can see the thing in his peripheral vision, little wings flapping quick as his heartbeat, which he can feel pulsing in his chest. God, can the thing feel him trembling? Can it sense fear? Is it gonna leave an awful red mark on his face? Is it just sizing him up before it strikes?

“Stay still,” Castiel murmurs, and steps closer. Dean closes his eyes. He breathes through his nose and tries to steel himself for the inevitable. And still it doesn’t escape his notice that at this distance, Castiel smells honey-sweet.

He feels the brush of cloth against his cheek, and then nothing. He opens one eye tentatively. The bee is gone. But Castiel is still there, gloved hand raised to Dean’s shoulder, staring at Dean with intent eyes.

“They’ve gotten used to crawling all over me,” Castiel says. “So they probably thought you’d be just as fun.”

“Mm-hm.” Dean just manages to nod. His gaze sweeps over Castiel’s lips. Chapped and full and desperately in need of kissing.

When Castiel turns, presumably to carry the bee back to its brethren, Dean feels all the rigidity in his muscles weaken. He wobbles a bit. Up close, Castiel’s presence had been overwhelming, like it could stop time. Dean’s breath sounds rough and loud to his own ears as it resumes.

Castiel pauses a few feet from the hive and turns. “So when should I expect you?”

“What?”

“To start building the enclosure. Perhaps you could come by tomorrow and let me know what exactly it would look like, what I can expect. I’m not much of a cook, but I do know how to order pizza.”

Dean’s jaw hangs open a second before he manages a “Yeah. Yeah, tomorrow’s cool. Sixish?” God, he’d forgotten all about that project. For a moment he’d thought he’d asked Cas out and then forgotten all about it.

Wait. Did Cas just ask him out? (Is asking him over the same thing?) And when did his name become “Cas”?

But when Castiel nods, fixes him with those blue eyes and says, “Sixish is perfect,” none of that matters.


	56. Beekeeper!Cas, part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The continuation of beekeeper!Cas.

Dean spends a good bit of the next day wandering Home Depot, pricing out lumber and mesh and door hinges. When he gets home, he works up a sketch of the garden enclosure he’s envisioning, a simple square using a light mesh wall that won’t feel too much like Cas is in a prison yard when he’s working on his garden or with his bees. The mesh he likes is a little pricier than the heavier stuff, but Dean’s not sweating the cost. This project has the potential to pay him back in spades.

He keeps wondering about Cas. To think a guy like that had been hiding behind that white picket fence for this long. To be fair, Dean figures, it’s as much his fault as Cas’s that they haven’t met before. Dean hasn’t exactly brought over a casserole and said howdy. But damn, the pies he’d have baked if he’d known a man of that caliber was waiting next door.

He’s betting too hard on Cas’ looks, he knows. Dean still doesn’t have a clue what the guy’s like, outside of his fairly pleasant behavior yesterday. He’d acquitted himself nicely, but half of that had been due to Dean’s jaw-on-the-floor reaction to seeing his face. All the fight had gone out of him. In retrospect, Dean had completely wussed out.

As though to tease him about it, a bee suddenly buzzes through the open window and flies a long arc around the room. Dean freezes and eyes it. He remembers Cas’ admonition not to make any quick moves. His instinct is to swat the damn thing down, tho. Freaking monsters.

It darts around the room for a long time. Dean scowls at it but manages to keep still. Eventually, it flies out the same window it came in. A full-body shudder of relief makes Dean drop his pencil. He’s going to be working around a whole hive of them? Really? Is he just a masochist?

But now it’s nearly six and it’s too late to wonder. Dean grabs his plans off the table and a six-pack out of the refrigerator to head over.

* * *

Cas meets him at the front door this time, and he’s just as heart-thumpingly good-looking this time. His hair has lost that electrified look – side effect of the beekeeping helmet, Dean guesses – and instead is a little damp and matted. Dean doesn’t mean to give him a once-over, but he can’t help himself. Cas looks shower-fresh, comfortable in a loose sweater and jeans, and Dean wants to knock him right over onto the sofa in the living room and kiss him until neither of them can breathe.

Instead, he offers up the six-pack. “I’d have brought a bottle of wine, but you said pizza, so…” He sniffs. It doesn’t smell quite like pizza.

“Forgive me,” Castiel says. “I felt ambitious and bought ingredients for lasagna.”

“Oh.” Dean feels stupid now. “Well, beer and lasagna… could work, I guess.”

“You must excuse me,” Castiel goes on. “I had an early shift this morning, so I came home and put it in the oven, and I’ve only now had the chance to shower.” He brushes back a damp strand of hair. “As you can see.”

Dean wants to deliver a fruit basket to whoever scheduled him for the early shift. He tries not to imagine Cas flushed from the steam, running fingers through his hair to wash out the shampoo, turning his face up into the spray… “It’s fine, dude. Don’t worry about it.”

Castiel leads him through the narrow hallway and into the kitchen and dining area. Dean notices a vase of flowers on the table and some pictures on the wall. Many of them portray Castiel alongside a bevy of other men, some with a considerably younger woman. None read like snapshots with a lover. It’s painfully obvious that Castiel lives alone, especially when he opens the refrigerator door to deposit the beer, and Dean sees how bare it is inside. Dean has the same bachelor’s refrigerator syndrome. When Sam lived with him, it was a lot better stocked. “So early shift, huh? How early?”

“Five a.m.,” Castiel says. “I was done at four, but I went to the store.”

“Five to four?” Dean whistles. “That’s a long shift.”

“It is. There’s a shortage of nurses. We have to keep the hospital staffed all day long.”

Dean can’t imagine working that kind of schedule. He thanks the powers that be for his business. “That’s some dedication.”

“It’s nursing,” Castiel says, and there’s a flat edge to his voice that Dean likes. “None of us are in it for the cushy lifestyle.”

“I guess you wouldn’t be.”

“And what do you do, Dean?” He appends the name deliberately, like he particularly wants to say it.

“I, uh.” Dean’s suddenly self-conscious about how very far from essential his own job is. “I run a specialty garage.”

“Specialty?” Castiel tilts his head.

“I restore and maintain classic cars.” And he charges an arm and a leg for it, and keeps a client list full of rich douchebags that want to own a classic without knowing a thing about cars. Dean can’t imagine owning one of those things without wanting to immerse yourself in knowledge about every little detail and how all the parts fit together, but that’s the nice thing about his job. He gets to tinker with beautiful machines, and doesn’t have to put up the expense of actually owning them.

Castiel’s eyebrows lift. “There’s a market for that?”

Dean shrugs. “Not a huge one, but I get by well enough. Half my job’s driving up to Baltimore or down to Richmond to convince owners my shop is worth the trouble of getting to it.” He can’t resist a bit of a brag. “I drive up in my own car. She’s a ‘67 Impala, and when folks see how well she runs, they’re usually sold.”

“I’ve seen it.” Castiel nods. There’s a dark flicker in his eyes, and Dean wonders if he’s amused at the brag or thinks Dean’s full of it. He wants to believe the former, but just in case, he’d better get down to business.

He pulls out the plans that he has rolled under his arm. “So here’s what I have for you…”

* * *

Castiel readily agrees to Dean’s plans for the enclosure. He offers to spring for the materials, but Dean refuses. “Your lasagna will pay for it,” he says, and Castiel breaks into an unguarded smile that makes his whole face glow. What Dean discovers in the course of explaining is that it actually won’t take all that much time to build – he could get started first thing next Saturday and have it done by late afternoon, if he works the whole time. He figures he’ll split it over two days, if nothing else, to get to see Castiel twice.

In the week that intervenes, he’ll just have to put up with the bees.

“Why bees?” he asks once the plans are rolled up again and Castiel’s pulling a delicious-smelling lasagna out of the oven.

“That’s a question with a complicated answer,” Castiel says. He pokes at the lasagna worriedly with a fork, but eventually seems satisfied and brings it to the table. It looks amazing. Dean wants to give Cas the side-eye for saying yesterday that he’s not much of a cook. Clearly he’s the type to undersell himself. He’d probably say he’s not all that great-looking, either. Dean already wants to shake him for it.

They sit down, and Castiel cuts a piece for him. Inside, it’s rich meat and thick sauce, gooey cheese and veggies. Dean could die happy. “The simple answer is,” Castiel explains as he cuts his own piece, “I’ve been fascinated with bees since I was a child. All insects, really, but I like bees especially for their role in the environment.”

“One of those kids who loved bugs, huh?” Dean tries to imagine Castiel as a child, crawling across the pavement following a beetle or a line of marching ants. “Bet your parents loved that.”

“My mother didn’t like them in the house, to be sure,” Castiel replies. “But she did let me keep an ant farm. I would stare for hours at the tunnels they built. I felt as though I could somehow learn to understand them if I watched for long enough.” He stops and takes in a breath. “That probably sounds strange.”

“Nah, man. You were a kid.” Dean’s already halfway through his piece of lasagna. He may not have a taste for fine cuisine, but this has gotta be good eating in anyone’s book. “Now if you tell me you talk to your bees now, that’s different.”

Castiel reddens. “Well, I do. I don’t have any illusions about them understanding me, of course. But in a very rudimentary way, I do understand them. They have certain patterns of behavior that I’ve learned to recognize.”

“But here’s the thing I don’t get,” Dean says. “If you’ve got a pet, like a dog or a cat, you can play with them, take them for walks, that kind of thing. What can you do with bees?”

“Believe it or not, Dean,” and there he is deliberately dropping Dean’s name again, “just watching them is enough.”

Dean tries to wrap his brain around that one. “Hm.” Maybe a second piece of lasagna will help him understand. He unceremoniously reaches for the pan.

Castiel gives him a scathing look and insists on serving him. Dean sits back, chastened, worrying he’s broken some unspoken rule of politeness. “But in terms of activities,” Castiel says, “there’s always the honey.”

“Oh, that’s right!” Dean had forgotten bees make honey. He really is a dumbass sometimes. “So you can what, just reach your hand right in and pull out a bunch of honey?” The thought scares the bejesus out of him, but Cas obviously has nerves of steel.

“Not exactly,” Castiel says. “Perhaps I’ll show you, the next time I gather.”

“That’d be awesome,” Dean says, though the idea of watching the bees up close makes him want to hide under his bed.

But watching Castiel watch the bees – now, there’s a different notion. Dean could get used to seeing him this close up, watching the minute movements of his hands and the tensing of muscles in his neck when he speaks. The guy he saw yesterday was a stranger wearing a mask, but even if the mask is on, knowing it’s Castiel underneath – it would change the whole experience. Dean could imagine his expressions as he works with them, tenderness in his eyes and a soft smile on his lips. He could grow to know every little action Castiel takes with them, nodding at familiar motions and understanding the reasons behind them. And when Castiel takes off the mask, Dean could run fingers through his mussed hair and cool the sweat from his neck with a damp rag, and they could…

“What?”

Dean starts. “What, what?”

“You’re staring at me.”

“I am?” Dean has to pull himself together. “I am. I’m sorry.”

“May I ask you something?”

There’s a spark in Castiel’s eyes that Dean doesn’t quite know the meaning of. “Shoot.”

“Were you looking at me? Or were you just thinking of something else?”

“I…” Dean can’t lie. “Little of both, I guess. I…” He shrugs. “I dunno what to say. Sorry if I weirded you out.”

But now Castiel’s cheeks are flushed, just barely, but noticeable. “Don’t be,” he says. “I don’t mind.”

“You don’t mind me thinking of something else? Or you don’t mind me looking at you?”

Castiel’s lips quirk. “Little of both.”

* * *

They agree Dean will start the work next weekend, and Dean offers Castiel his phone number in case something comes up. They stand, a little awkwardly, in Castiel’s doorway to say goodnight.

“So. Saturday,” Dean says, out of a lack of anything else to say.

“Saturday,” Castiel agrees, nodding.

“Oh, hey, thing I forgot to ask you,” Dean says. “Mind if I call you Cas”

Castiel reddens. “Cas?”

“Yeah.” Dean waves his hand dismissively. “Castiel’s… long.”

“I suppose it is, when you’re used to 'Dean.’” Castiel’s laughing at him a little, Dean thinks, but he can’t feel bad about it. Not when Castiel’s smiles, few and far between as they have been, have given him life tonight. “It’s fine. I haven’t had a nickname in a long time.”

“Oh? Makes me wonder what the other one were.” _And who gave them to you._

“I… someone used to call me Cassie, a while ago.” Castiel’s lip curls. “Looking back, I didn’t like it much.”

“Well, you’re Cas to me,” Dean says. “If you decide you don’t like that one too…”

“I like it,” Castiel interrupts. “I do. I like it.”

For a moment Dean thinks Castiel’s going to lean in and kiss him. The tension’s certainly ample, hanging in the air like the halo around the streetlights, bright and full. But Castiel simply looks at him for a long time, until it’s Dean who’s stuttering, “What?”

“It’s been a very long time,” Castiel says. “Since I… entertained.”

Dean nods. “Me too. If it helps, you’re good.” He pauses. “At _entertaining,_ I mean.”

“Thank you.” Castiel lifts a hand, and Dean doesn’t know if he wants a handshake, or if he intends something else. He raises his own hand to meet it. When their palms meet, Castiel looks a little thrown. But Dean holds his gaze steady, claps his other hand over the back of Castiel’s, and holds it there for a long moment. It’s more than a handshake, but it’s not quite holding hands. Whatever it is, Dean’s sad to let it go. But it’s either that or lean in and make his intent known, and he doesn’t want to scare Castiel off.

He lowers his hands. They still burn with the warmth of Castiel’s palm and fingers. “Good night,” he says.

“Good night, Dean.” And it sounds, at least to Dean’s ears, like there’s something a little more behind the name this time. Castiel takes in a quick breath then, and adds, “See you Saturday.”

“Saturday,” Dean repeats, and forces himself to head down the walkway. As he crosses the sidewalk in front of the picket fence that separates their houses, he can’t help but feel like Saturday is awfully far away.


	57. hardass dom!cas from S4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A certain S4 photoset inspired me to write hardass dom!Cas from season 4.

“It’s true,” Castiel says. “We have no hearts.” He runs a hand down Dean’s chest, fingers brushing against the parted edges of his shirt.

“Yeah,” Dean manages between slowed, deliberate breaths, “yeah, I get that.” His gaze follows the movements of Castiel’s arm, darts up to his eyes and then returns. He’s frozen to the spot, his feet heavy stones.

“But now, at least, we do have bodies.” There’s an analytical expression on Castiel’s face, as though Dean were a mildly interesting science project. He slides his hand up and to the side, fingers curling around Dean’s ribcage. Dean feels the handprint as clear as the one Castiel left on his shoulder, not so long ago. “And this body, I’m finding, has needs.”

Dean wonders why he doesn’t back away. Why he’s let Castiel find him like this, half-dressed and alone, and why he didn’t protest when Cas first reached out to touch him. “Welcome to Meat Suits 101, dude,” he says. “Bodies need things. You get hungry, you get tired…”

As soon as he says it, he knows what Castiel’s answer will be. “Those needs I can take care of. But this body wants things, as well.” He locks his gaze to Dean’s, and Dean hears the words falling like boulders. “This body wants you.”

Dean fights to find words. But Castiel doesn’t wait for them. He reaches out with his other arm, catches Dean by the waist and pulls him into a loose embrace. They’re nose to nose, and when Castiel exhales Dean can feel the warm puff of breath against his own lips.

“Dean,” and the name is a word of warning, “I am an angel. I did not take this body with permission, and I won’t…”

Dean’s half-hypnotized, staring at him, every pore in his face so close and his eyes so dark, pupils full and wide. Where Cas touches him he buzzes, almost vibrates with heat and want. Is it all Castiel’s, or is it his own, too? Because along with the want is the pain of holding back, and if it’s Castiel holding back for his sake…

In a sudden, impulsive rush, Dean presses forward and seals his mouth over Castiel’s. A single, hot brand.

A moment of tension and waiting, and then Castiel’s got him by the shoulder, the arm, the hip, pushing him back against the wall and trapping him there. His kiss sears Dean’s mouth. Dean’s legs go to water, and he fights just to keep his knees from buckling. Castiel’s tongue pushes into his mouth, and Dean licks back, trying to find his footing again.

The kiss becomes a wrestling match. Dean grabs him by his coat and hauls him in, tangles fingers into his hair, won’t let go until he’s drawn a groan from Castiel’s mouth. If this were a contest of strength alone, Castiel would win – even now he’s got Dean trapped so heavily against the wall that it’s all Dean can do to hold on. But Dean knows things Castiel doesn’t, like how it feels when lips land on your neck, and the noise he draws from Cas when he presses hot stars of kisses there is a victory.

“I have to…” Castiel whispers against his ear, his body heavy against Dean’s. “I have to have you.”

Dean grits his teeth at the swell of arousal that surges through him. “Here I am,” he growls in return.

A rush of muscle and limbs and clothing, and Dean’s on the bed, Castiel kneeling over him, trenchcoat gone, fingers fumbling at his necktie. Dean watches, his hands still folded over his head where Castiel had pinned them a minute ago. He doesn’t move until Castiel seeks out his gaze and commands, “Help.” Then, Dean gets to work undoing Castiel’s buttons, his fingers fast and purposeful. When Castiel’s bare chest flattens over his own, they both groan.

Castiel’s learned quickly, and now he’s pulling cries of want from Dean easy as anything, his mouth wandering over all the sensitive soft spots on Dean’s neck and jaw. When he nips at Dean’s ear, then sucks the lobe into his mouth, Dean rolls his hips up frantically. His erection catches against the inside of Cas’ thigh, and he ruts there helplessly, trying to drum up as much friction and heat as he can. God, the way Cas feels – or maybe it’s the way he smells, Dean doesn’t know which sense is which right now – but he’s never felt like this before, never been owned so completely. He’s got no control, can’t speed Cas up or slow him down, and it feels like freedom, like cruising at 120 down a two-lane highway. The wind’s never been in his hair or the music in his ears the way Castiel is in all of him right now, in his skin and his trembling limbs and his mouth. Cas is everywhere and Dean only wants more.

A growl from above him, and Castiel pins his arms above his head again. “Stay like that,” he orders, and Dean nods. He cranes his neck up for more kisses, but Castiel is gone from over him. He’s stood up and is undoing his belt. The sight of the tent in his pants hits Dean like a ton of bricks, and maybe he should worry about what that means, what’s coming next. But all he can think is that he did that to Cas, and pride floods him at knowing he had that power. It’s all he can think of as Castiel pulls Dean’s jeans off, then his boxers, then bends his knees upward. Cas wants me. He said he has to have me. Cas said that. To me.

When Castiel touches him next, one hand brushing over the back of his thighs, Dean adds another thought to the mix. He has to have me, he thinks. And I’m gonna let him.

“You know what you’re doin’?” he asks, a little hesitantly, when Castiel’s fingers wander across the skin of his ass, easing toward the cleft.

“I know how this works,” Castiel replies with a scowl, and at once his finger’s in and it’s wet and Dean’s jaw drops as the burn-full-good feeling rips through him. He rocks from side to side, panting, needing to feel Cas’s finger from every angle, on every side. Two fingers and he’s fighting for breath. His cock throbs and his fingers itch, but he stays still, hands crossed above his head, waiting for what he needs.

Castiel settles onto the bed, on his knees, and lifts Dean’s hips to meet him. Dean doesn’t breathe at all. He grits his teeth and waits.

“Dean.”

Dean blinks. Castiel’s still. The name hangs leaden in the air.

Is he asking permission?

The words somehow find breath. “Do it, Cas, just do it. Jesus.”

Castiel nods, and Dean thinks those eyes are going to pierce right through him like twin blades.

Then, he’s full up beyond what he thought he could take, and Dean grits his teeth and lets out a strangled noise. He won’t be able to take it, he’s going to come apart, and oh God, he’s burning up, but Castiel’s body settles down over his and Dean doesn’t want him to ever get up. He rocks up into the closeness, searching for skin to seal his mouth over. He gets a bit of Castiel’s shoulder under his lips and sucks hard, then soothes with a flickering tongue. Castiel makes noises above him that Dean never thought he’d hear.

And Dean’s making noises too, groans and hisses with each full, thick stroke, but words as well, whispered into Cas’s skin. “Yeah,” he murmurs, and “do it” and “come on,” as though Castiel needs encouragement to keep going. He doesn’t even know if Cas hears him. His only response is more thrusts, each one threatening to tear him apart, each one making waves of heat and pleasure surge up through his gut until his fingers are tingling. The body above him is unrelenting, hard and solid, like a machine.

And maybe he is. Maybe this is just him fulfilling his body’s wants, pistoning in and out of Dean until he’s satisfied. And if that’s what it is, it doesn’t matter to Dean. He knows wanting, he knows the drive to conquer and to fuck. He can’t blame Cas for that, and he fucking loves that it’s him that drove Cas to it.  

But when Castiel seizes up and climaxes, he trembles, and he whispers Dean’s name as the shudders wrack him, and Dean hears it as the desperate cry of a drowning man looking for a savior.

But when Dean grabs his own cock and brings himself over the edge with a few sharp tugs, Castiel hovers over him and watches with a look not unlike wonder.

But when it’s all over, Castiel kisses him again, searching and unsure, and draws back with eyes wide and strangely bright.

And Dean thinks maybe he’s mistaken after all. Maybe some angels do have hearts.


	58. Close quarters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "We’re hiding from the authorities and it’s very close quarters in here, I can feel your body against mine."

In the hallway of the abandoned house, Dean can hear the vamps pull up in their pickup trucks and start heading toward the front door. He looks around for a hiding place.

“Here,” Castiel says, and grabs Dean by the shirt. A moment later, Dean’s hauled into the tiny crawl space beneath the stairs, where he has to crouch and bend his head in order to fit. Castiel shoves in next to him, their knees overlapping, and they stay quiet as the vamps kick in the door and start searching the house.

Castiel shifts, and Dean hushes him with a hiss. Sure, it’s not the most comfortable of positions, all tangled up together in a freaking hobbit hole. But uncomfortable is better than dead, and if Castiel makes a noise they’re dead. Dean listens intently as the vamps clatter through the kitchen and head up the squeaky stares right above them.

“Dean.” Castiel’s voice is guttural and urgent.

Dean glares at him. “Shh.” The vamps are on the second floor now.

Castiel at least tries to keep his voice down. “I apologize,” he mutters.

“What the hell for?” Dean hisses at him. Now is not the time for apologies.

Castiel averts his eyes. “For my body’s… reaction.”

Oh yeah, and come to think of it, his body really is warm. They’re both a little sweaty from the chase, and their skin sticks together where it touches. Their breaths come hot and fast in the tiny space, buffeting against each other, no room to turn away. But that ain’t what Cas is apologizing for, and when Dean closes his eyes, he can feel exactly what he _is_ talking about. And wow, he doesn’t really know how to respond to that.

He decides on “Now’s not the time,” and, a moment later, “Can’t you make it go away?” Because now that he’s noticed it, he can’t un-notice it. And geez. That’s awkward. More awkward still that he’s feeling just a little hotter for the knowledge of it. And Castiel’s skin is looking kind of like an oasis, flushed and glittering with sweat. And Dean’s a thirsty man.

Castiel meets his eyes. “I can,” he says. But he doesn’t.

Dean stares at him for a good long time before he realizes what that gaze is really about.

“You little bastard,” he says, shaking his head. “You just wanted to make sure I noticed.”

“Did you?” Castiel’s voice is even. his eyes continue to blaze.

Well, Dean sure as hell notices now. He’s noticing a lot. Like the way Castiel’s leaning on him, just slightly. The closeness of Castiel’s face to his, and the way stubble sweeps over his jaw, light and even. The way Dean’s heart is contracting, like a clenched fist, at the thought that Castiel’s been holding this back all this time, and that in his awkward Castiel way, he’s chosen the absolute wrong time to put himself out there.

And it’s just like Castiel to commence flirting by basically saying, “Hey, do you feel my erection?”

Dean wants to laugh. How fucking typical. And how typically stupid of himself, to get all hot and bothered about it. Because god damn it, he’s hearing the violins now. Staring at Cas, marveling at everything he is, and – to be honest – loving all of it.

He sighs exasperatedly and rolls his eyes. And then he plants his mouth on Castiel’s and kisses him for a long moment.

When he pulls back, Castiel’s all red cheeks and wide eyes. Like something out of a goddamn cartoon. Dean extends a finger and pokes him in the chest. “We talk about that _later_ ,” he says, and stumbles out of the crawl space, stretching and pulling his knife from his belt.

Of course, the vamps left a few minutes ago. But it can’t hurt to be careful.


	59. Sabriel, Season 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some Sabriel for a change of pace. Something that could have happened just before Gadreel came to possess Sam's body.

“Jesus, Sam. Scare a guy to death, why don’t you?”

Sam turns. The first thing out of his mouth isn’t “You’re alive” or “Is that really you?” though maybe it should be. But instead, he says, “I thought we were angel-proofed.”

Gabriel raises an eyebrow. “The bunker is angel-proofed,” he informs Sam. “But we’re not in the bunker.”

Sam looks around. It looked like the bunker a second ago. Now it’s a hospital room, white curatins and tiled floor, and Dean’s sitting by the bed with his head propped up on folded hands, eyes intent on some faraway point. Sam starts to go to him, but then he catches a glimpse of the figure in the hospital bed. It’s a very familiar figure. “I’m in the hospital?”  He turns back to Gabriel. “We’re inside my head?”

Gabriel shrugs. “You thought you’d just walk away from those trials?”

Now Sam remembers. Crowley, and the church, and Dean walking in… Let it go, Dean had said, and then there were shooting stars, no, angels flaming out, and then nothing…

“I thought that was the point,” Sam says, worried. “I back out of the trials and I get to live.”

“Oh, you’ll live.” Gabriel crosses to the window and peeks behind the curtain at the street outside. “Your brother’s praying up a storm. Begging the angels to help you. It’s only a matter of time before someone answers. Nothing better to do here on earth.”

“So it’s true then?” Sam says. “All the angels fell?”

“You saw it with your own peepers. Gonna be a mess. Lots of Godly folk saying yes and not knowing what they’re getting themselves into.” Gabriel points to himself. “I let this guy go after I decided to take up permanent residence. My sibs? Not gonna be so nice.”

“All right.” Sam takes a huffing breath. “Enough. Why are you here? Are you even real?”

Gabriel grins. “That’d be telling. I’ll answer the first one, though. I’m here to bitch you out.”

Sam chokes on his own tongue. “To *what*?”

“You heard me.” Gabriel steps forward then, stands toe to toe with Sam in the little room. “What the hell did you think you were doing with those trials? You know even death isn’t permanent with you two. Did you really think you would close the gates forever? What was gonna happen when some enterprising demon found a way back up topside? Without you even there to kill it. Dad-damnit, Sam! You almost got yourself killed for nothing!”

He’s red-faced by the end, and Sam stares at him, incredulous. He shakes his head slowlly. “Why do you even care?” he says. “You were all set to feed me to your brother and get the apocalypse going.”

“To be fair, I came around on that,” Gabriel says irritably.

“And?” Every second he’s staring ito this jerk’s eyes, Sam’s feeling more and more hot under the collar. He doesn’t stop to question it.“If you’re real and not dead, you could have gotten me out of the cage.”

“That was taken care of–”

Sam just plows ahead. “You could have saved me any number of times. You could have warned me. You could have stopped me. Now I’m in a hospital bed.” He gestures at his bedridden self. “And now you decide to come and give me hell?” He crosses his arms over his chest, if only to keep from trashing the room, he’s so miffed. “What are you really here for?”

Gabriel gazes at him. His eyes are hollow and round. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” he said, and there’s a sad note in his voice.

“You’re right, I probably wouldn’t. You’re so full of crap, I can smell it from here.”

He gets another long, silent stare as a result. Gabriel takes in a quiet breath, then backs off a pace. “All right,” he says, “you win. I’ll back off. You won’t even remember this conversation.”

A pang of regret hits Sam. “Wait a minute,” he starts.

“Just one thing,” Gabriel goes on. “If you never trust a word I say, trust this, at least.”

His shoes lift off the floor. Sam watches him, carefully, suspicious of every movement. But as Gabriel floats toward him, a foot off the ground, Sam finds himself unable to move. He stands there, rooted to the spot, watching Gabriel get closer and closer. For an instant, a pair of lips touch his. A kiss like a dream. Sam’s not even sure, right now, that it even happened.

“Remember,” Gabriel says to him carefully, “what it feels like to have an angel inside you.”

Sam tries, as hard as he’s ever tried anything, to burn the words into his memory. But it’s like fighting to stay awake under anasthesia, and soon, everything is gone and he’s in darkness again.


	60. Rule 63

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rule 63 Dean/Cas (my headcanon is that girl!Dean would be Dena) and the prompt: "I just told you I liked you but now I’m shy and say “never mind, forget it” and why are you looking at me like that?"

“Of course,” Castiel says, “I may be biased in my assessment, considering the fact that I’m in love with you, but..”  
  
Dena takes in a sharp breath. “Wait. Stop. Hold the phone. What did you just say?”  
  
Castiel looks at her, reddening. “Nothing of import.”  
  
“The hell it was!” Dena snaps. “You don’t get to drop a bomb and run. Say that one more time.” She leans in as she makes the dare, dissolving that once-sacred line of _personal space_ , and Castiel struggles to swallow. What an error in judgment she’s made. What a foolish, careless, _human_ thing to do.  
  
And what a strange look in Dena’s eyes. Castiel meets her gaze and is instantly locked into it. She couldn’t turn away now even if she wanted to. What a hold human emotion has over the body. It continues to amaze and frighten her.   
  
“I thought you already knew,” she offers timidly. “I thought it was obvious.”  
  
Dena’s stare continues. There’s a wrinkle in her brow, a slight fold just over the bridge of her nose that could signify confusion or concern. Castiel isn’t sure which. She’s tempted to peek into Dena’s mind, just to find some resolution to the awful uncertainty. If Dena would just _say_ something, just give her some clue as to what is to come of this, Castiel might be able to breathe again. As it is, she’s stuck somewhere between hope and despair.  
  
“How could it be obvious?” Dena says finally, her words slow and deliberate. “You never tell me anything.”  
  
“I don’t want to be a burden,” Castiel replies. She hopes Dena knows what that means.  
  
Dena laughs, a soft little chuckle that reveals a dimple to the left of her mouth. “‘Course you’re a burden,” she informs Castiel pointedly. “That’s what family is. We’re a big freakin’ load on each other’s back, but it’s worth it, because we _share_ the load. You gotta share with me, Cas. You gotta tell me how you’re feeling.”  
  
“I just did.”  Castiel’s defensive. Is Dena blaming her for something?  
  
“Yeah, you did.” Dena’s smile does something to Castiel’s insides. “Thanks. For sharing.”  
  
Now Castiel’s totally lost. “Um, you’re welcome?” She really doesn’t know how this ends. Do they go on from here as they always have? Does anything change? _Should_ anything change?  
  
Dena’s grin widens. “Now do it again.”  
  
“What?” Heat floods Castiel’s face.  
  
“You heard me. Say it again. I wanna hear it for real.”  
  
Dena’s words goad, but her gaze is patient, and Castiel finds a kind of strength there. She reaches out and places her hand on Dena’s knee, a gesture that could be just a friendly reassurance. Or, if Dena chooses, perhaps it could be something more.  
  
Castiel takes in a soft breath, and she speaks low and clear. “I love you. I really thought you knew,” she adds, perplexed.   
  
“Yeah, well, I didn’t.” Dena lifts a hand to Castiel’s hair, brushes it back over her ear. The intimacy of the gesture has Castiel tingling. “Cas,” Dena says, and stops, as though searching for words.  
  
“You don’t have to say anything,” Castiel offers. “We can pretend I never said it.”  
  
“No, we can’t.” Dena slips her hand down to Castiel’s chin, angling it up. “And I don’t wanna.”  
  
“Then what do you want to–”  
  
Castiel’s cut off by the soft touch of Dena’s lips, careful and perfect. Her heart rises to her throat. She’s never had a kiss like this before, so patient, so giving, and it’s sweeter than anything she’s felt in this human body. She purses her lips to kiss back, as best she can, and when she presses into Dena’s lips a little too hard she hears that soft throaty chuckle that makes her melt inside. Dena frames her face in two hands, kisses her like she’s something precious, and when it finally ends Castiel has tears in her eyes. She couldn’t have imagined a response like this. She never dared to hope.  
  
“Everything’s good,” Dena says, smiling fondly at her. “We’re good, Cas.”  
  
Castiel raises two fingers to her still-buzzing lips. “Yes,” she agrees, “yes, we are.”  
  
She doesn’t get an _I love you, too_ from Dena, not for a long time. But it’s all right. From that moment, she knows.


	61. Performing Arts AUs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There was a list of performing arts AUs going around. Here are some prompts I filled.

_"We’re both auditioning for the same part and I kinda hope you get it"_

Dean sang Why God Why. It went well, and he thinks he nailed the high notes, which is satisfying. As he takes his sheet music back and sits down, he thinks, I’ve nailed this. Pippin is mine.

And then the guy next to him gets up. Dark-haired, sinewy and gorgeous, this guy, and Dean can’t see him as a potential Pippin. Maybe Lewis, or a really young King Charlemagne. He definitely doesn’t have the presence of a Leading Player. Nice-looking as he is, he doesn’t own the room when he slates, giving his name as Castiel Engel. He’s quiet. Demure even. And then the pianist gives him a C major chord, and he sings.

He sings [Being Alive](http://archiveofourown.org/works/86300).

It starts low, too low for Pippin, and Dean’s first thought is that this guy’s voice isn’t the right type. He’s a baritone, and Pippin’s a high pop tenor. But Castiel’s voice rises and soars on the higher notes, and there’s a sweet, longing ache in his vowels, and Dean finds himself sitting on the edge of his chair watching, fascinated.

This song. It’s so damned perfect for a Pippin audition, Dean’s mad he didn’t think of it himself. What is the character of Pippin about, if not learning how to be alive? Dean wants to see this Castiel surrounded by swords and then girls and then in a throne and then at a farm. He wants to see him in war, in lust, in love, in despair. Castiel’s voice would shred Corner of the Sky and lift Morning Glow. Dean’s jealous, but even his jealousy takes a back seat to his fascination. Where did Castiel study? What’s his resume like? Or is he just one of those golden voices that appears out of nowhere to take the world by storm?

After the audition, Dean’s gonna catch up with him and ask him. There are some stars that you just have to follow.

* * *

 

_"I use improv class as an excuse to flirt with you."_

 

“Freeze!”

Castiel sighs. There goes Dean Winchester again. He never passes up an opportunity to get into a compromising position.

They’re playing the old standard improv game of freeze tag. Two actors start a scene, usually a highly physical one; at any point, a member of the audience can shout “Freeze!” and “tap out” an actor, assuming his position and starting an entirely new scene. At the moment, Gabriel has been playing Castiel’s tailor, his arms outstretched as he measures the distance from Castiel’s shoulder to his wrist with an imaginary measuring tape. Dean grins as he makes his way forward, and, as Castiel feared, he taps out Gabriel.

All at once it’s Dean’s hands on his shoulder and wrist, and where Gabriel had merely pantomimed, Dean takes firm hold and leads Castiel into a merry waltz. “You’re a lovely dancer,” he sings in a falsetto, eyes sparkling, and Castiel is unable to do anything but play along.

Dean’s trying to make his life miserable, Castiel’s sure of it. If only he weren’t so very aware right now of Dean’s fingers tight on his shoulder, Dean’s thumb stroking his palm. His heart gallops in quick, heavy beats. The rest of the class sees only two actors improvising a scene. They can’t know how being this close to Dean affects him. But Castiel’s sure Dean knows, and this is his way of giving Castiel shit about it.

The scene is cut mercifully short by another “freeze,” and Castiel is tapped out next, allowing him to rejoin the rest of the class in the audience. His hands are still warm where they’d touched Dean, his shoulder still burning with the contact. He doesn’t want to have a crush on Dean. The guy’s all hypermasculine swagger. But the crinkles at the edge of his eyes when he smiles, the way his smile opens wide and easy – they hypnotize Castiel. It’s like being dragged underwater, watching him. Castiel loses his breath, and the rest of the world goes muted and dim. There’s only Dean, and Castiel can’t look away.

Dean does it again later in class, when they’re playing the Party game. In this game, one actor is the host of a party, and other actors enter as “guests” that have a particular quirk. Dean’s quirk has nothing to do with flirting – Castiel later guesses, correctly, that he’s a snake who’s just turned human and has no idea what to do with arms and legs – but that doesn’t stop him getting all up in Castiel’s space, leaning on him and wrapping around him just like a python might. “SSssso ssssexy,” he moons at one point, and Castiel tries in vain to shake him off, then ignores him to attempt a conversation with another party guest. It’s not easy to concentrate with Dean’s chest pressed to his arm, his leg thrust against Castiel’s. This all would be so pleasant if it weren’t right in the middle of class, in front of everybody.

Castiel leaves the class all keyed up and ready to punch something. He shouldn’t let Dean get to him, but he can’t help it. His heart pounds whenever he thinks about Dean, and even now, in the midst of his anger, he wants, more badly than he’s ever wanted anything. If Dean would just stop teasing him long enough to look at him and truly understand. He ducks into a side hallway, narrow and dark, and leans heavily against the wall, fist clenched.

“Hey.”

He turns his head. It seems he can’t get any peace here, either.

Dean eases into the hallway in a fluid movement and leans against the opposite wall. “I enjoyed dancing with you,” he says, raising his eyebrows suggestively.

“Yes, well, that makes one of us.” Castiel glares at him.

“Oh, come on, don’t be that way.” Dean’s all teasing smiles and twinkling eyes, and he’s gorgeous and annoying and Castiel wants to scream.

“Don’t be what way, Dean?” he snaps. “Irritated? Fed up? Sick of your playing games with me?”

“Harsh, dude,” Dean says, affecting a hurt face. “It’s improv. I was having a little fun.”

“Well, your ‘fun’ isn’t my idea of having a good time,” Castiel says. “And I don’t appreciate you following me, either.”

Dean lifts his hands in a gesture of surrender. “All right,” he says, “I’m sorry already. I had no idea it was pissing you off. I’ll stop.”

Castiel regards him warily. No idea? A likely story. Dean’s all about getting a rise out of others. It’s what makes him a good performer – he has that instinctual knowledge of how to draw a reaction from an audience. Castiel, who delights in the inner process of acting but has trouble with communicating his character decisions, envies that about him. It must be nice to be Dean. So open, so outwardly focused. Castiel can get lost in his own head for days.

“Thank you,” he says grudgingly. He’ll believe Dean will stop when he sees it. But it’s nice to at least have the promise.

Dean clears his throat. A little of the unwavering confidence leaves his expression. “Look, uh, for what it’s worth, I really wasn’t trying to annoy you.”

Castiel gives him a sideways look.

Dean leans forward. “Really!” he insists. “If anything, I’ve been trying to get you to react at all. I can’t figure out how to crack you, Cas. It’s a little infuriating.”

“It’s a little infuriating to be teased, too,” Castiel rejoins.

“I wasn’t teasing you!”

“Then what were you doing?”

Dean stares at him for an interminable minute. Then, like a schoolboy, he looks down at his feet. “Flirting,” he admits.

All the blood drains from Castiel’s face. Dizzy, he clutches at the wall. “What did you say?” he manages in a hoarse voice.

Dean shrugs. “I was flirting with you,” he says, looking up at him now through half-lidded eyes. “Or trying. Like I said, I couldn’t get a reaction. So sue me, you’re cute.” He gives a halfhearted laugh. “I dig the method-actor thing. You’re intense, and I like it. It’s cool.”

Befuddled, but with soft stirrings of hope coming to life in his chest, Castiel squints at him. “You could have told me that. Or talked to me. Or done anything but humiliate me in front of the class.”

“Yeah, I… I can see that now,” Dean says. His rueful smile is fading from his face now, and sadness glimmers in his eyes. “I blew it. I’m sorry. Look, I’ll try not to get in your way anymore, but we _are_ in a class together. I can’t promise we’re never gonna have to share the stage. But like I said, I’ll try and respect…”

“I like you very much, Dean,” Castiel blurts out.

Dean’s jaw drops in mid-word. “Huh?”

Now Castiel’s pulse is flying, and all the blood that had gone south before is pumping hard through his whole body. He can feel his face getting red. “You ‘cracked’ me a very long time ago,” he says. “I thought you knew. I thought you could tell, and you just wanted me to feel uncomfortable. I thought you were making fun of me for liking you so much.”

Staring, round-eyed, Dean tries to pick his jaw up off the floor. “You.. what?” He shakes his head. “I wasn’t– I didn’t. Holy hell,” he says, and there’s a hint of pink in his cheeks, too.

“Holy hell,” Castiel echoes, nodding his agreement.

This brings a smile onto Dean’s face. There are those crinkles at the corners of his eyes again. Castiel is so very glad to see them. He reaches out, impulsively, and grabs Dean’s hand. Warmth flows through him, and their fingers interlace. They both stare down at it. Castiel bites his lip from how good it feels to be touching – not in service to a scene, not chasing a punchline, but just touching for the sake of touch. Because they like each other. Such a simple phrase, yet it makes Castiel feel as though a new world is beginning.

“Hey, Cas?” Dean murmurs, catching his gaze again.

“Yes?”

Dean grins. “Freeze.”

Castiel does as he’s told. He doesn’t move again until Dean’s lips have found his.


	62. can't stop touching

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> written sometime during the middle of season 11, when cas was posessed by luci. This was my idea of what might happen.

Cas is back, and Dean can’t stop touching him.

They share an embrace on the field of battle, once Amara has dissipated into smoke and Lucifer is exorcised to burn in the Cage, once Dean’s sure it’s finally Cas in that body and nobody else. But the touching doesn’t stop there. Back at the bunker, taking a few hard-earned days off from the saving-n-hunting scene, Dean lays a hand on Castiel’s shoulder as he passes by in the kitchen. He sits with him on the couch watching TV, shoulder to shoulder, their thighs brushing as they share a big bowl of popcorn. In the garage, he hip-checks Castiel on his way to wash the car, then leans in just a little too close to sniff when Castiel complains after fumbling among the tools that he’s now smelling like grease.

And in Castiel’s room that night, when Dean’s going to go up to bed himself, he says, dumbly. “Glad to have you back, man.”

“It’s good to be back,” Castiel says.

“Yeah.” Dean nods.

“Yeah.”

And they stand there, and look at each other. Castiel’s little silver desk lamp’s the only light in the room, so their faces are half in shadow, but they still look at each other. And something sits there in the air between them, an unfulfilled want, a magnetism that Dean’s been chipping away at all day (all week) with those tiny little glancing touches.

“C'mere,” Dean mutters under his breath, and reaches out to drag Castiel in by the nape of his neck. Castiel’s head tucks into Dean’s shoulder, his hands sliding up Dean’s back to rest on his shoulder blades. Dean thumps his back with one broad palm, then eases up and steps back, expecting to feel at least a little satisfied.

But when Castiel’s hands slip past his waist and fall again, that magnetism is still hanging there, heavy and hard. Dean thinks he’s going to crumple with the weight of it.

So he gives Cas another hug, this one tighter. He doesn’t pound Cas on the back this time but just holds him, arms stretched tight around his shoulders. Their chests, hips bump; Castiel nearly steps on his foot. It’s so close as to be awkward, even. So it has to take the edge off.

It doesn’t. This time they can’t even make it out of each other’s arms. Castiel’s cheek brushes his as he draws back, and Dean’s pulse flutters in his throat as he holds Cas by the shoulders, unable to let go. Their foreheads touch. Castiel’s eyes are open. In the dim light, they’re deep, ocean-blue.

“Hell,” Dean feels the rumble of the sound in his throat. It takes him a minute to realize he’s the one speaking.

“Dean.” The word falls on Dean’s ears heavily, like it’s holding a hundred thousand other words in check.

Dean hears himself answer with Cas’ name. He realizes his hand has traveled from Castiel’s shoulder to his neck, now to his jaw, folding around the curve of it.

Around them, the room is dim and hushed. Nothing moves, nothing speaks as Dean tips his head and brushes his lips against Cas’s.

And that feels like relief. But also like fire. It sweeps Dean up in a blaze of warmth, and he catches Castiel’s mouth more firmly under his own. Cas sucks in a breath; Dean can feel the whooshing of air against his skin.

He pulls back. And then leans forward again. They kiss. And stare at each other. And kiss some more.

The questions flash by in his mind. What is he doing, what is he thinking, how can this happen? But the answers are all right there. Dean can taste them on Cas’ lips, along with something so sweet and soft that Dean might just melt. He keeps tasting, not willing to let it go for even a moment.

This. This is what he’s been yearning for. Cas’ mouth on his mouth, the soft touch of his tongue, the feel of his hands in Dean’s hair and at the small of his back. Cas’ body, hard and solid but so responsive, first surging against his. Then pressed between Dean’s body and the wall. Then, at last, beneath him, on the bed, arching and shuddering as Dean takes him apart with tongue and fingers. Cas’ lips parted, soft gasps sucking in air, sharp cries letting it out. Cas’ hands, tentative at his waist, on his chest. Cas’ legs, wrapped around him.

Dean’s mind is reeling, and his heart is pounding, but by the time they’re breathless and sweaty and clinging to each other, he knows this was supposed to happen. This was always where the story was going.

“Glad you’re back,” he mumbles, one more time, into the hollow of Cas’ shoulder.


End file.
